A Fire To Be Reignited
by luna-proeliator
Summary: Sequel to A Debt To Be Repaid. Sherlock was supposed to be dead; The Carver was supposed to be locked away; Ursa was supposed to be dead. After Holmes reveals the truth behind his fall, it all starts crashing down around Jen as Moriarty's plans come full circle. Even in death, he is Sherlock's greatest threat, and Jen's his primary target. But what does Moriarty want with her?
1. Prologue: The Jacket

**Welcome! If you are new here, go read A Debt To Be Repaid. Also, M rating as you can see. I will warn you when that comes about but be warned that throughout the story, you will see an increase in coarse language and themes and violence. **

* * *

**Part One: The Carver**

The jacket hung alone away from the woman's clothing in the closet; it hung on the door frame as if its owner had often looked at it confused and perplexed during down time, and she often did. Why it came into her possession became a thought gnawing on her brain begging for an answer. It was an obsession that would often lead to screaming and shouting hoping the dead could talk.

Ginevra Lorraine often paced in front of this jacket thinking, trying to understand it, and she did understand it in every way a person could understand a single article of clothing.

Vivienne Westwood could be extreme in her designs, but sometimes she was subtle. In the case of suit that the jacket was paired with, she was subtle and elegant. The suit could range from 500-1500 quid, and the jacket itself could likely fetch a hundred or so. It had been bought as soon as the design was on the market and was tailored to fit perfectly. It was polished and refined; it was the small things that really made this suit stand out from its competition, and it was these things that caught James Moriarty's attention when he bought it not too long before his death.

After a hundred tests by numerous professionals, it was found to be nothing harmless but a jacket. It was made of a dark blue 100% virgin wool- whatever that meant. It was all useless information to her; it was all superfluous. She could tell you a million facts about this damn jacket, but she could not tell you why. Why had James Moriarty left her this jacket? No… perhaps that wasn't the question. Perhaps the question was: why had James Moriarty draped this damn jacket over her cold, unconscious form in some strange moment of humanity? What had triggered such an act? Why would he stop his game just to bring her into her flat out of the cold?

In retrospect, she mused, it shouldn't have mattered; it should have been just another item left by another dead man, but it wasn't. It had purpose though she couldn't say what. Moriarty knew that she would know that the Westwood jacket was his. When they first met, she straightened it for him as she threatened; he told Mrs. Hudson his name. He wanted her to know _he _left her that jacket. But why? That was the question! Why!?

It made no sense. Was he just trying to mock her? Was he just trying to confuse her? Was he just trying to drive her mental? No, no, he may have been a psychopath, but that man never did anything for the hell of it. He always had a grand purpose for this jacket and for her, or was she delusional?

But eventually, the days ran away from her and turned to weeks that then proceeded into months, and December of that year, her heater broke. She stumbled out of bed and grabbed the jacket before sliding it on to find some sort of comfort in the freezer that had become her room. It never stayed on its hanger after that.

She wore it in the fall, winter, spring, and even manage to in the summer. The few days she didn't wear it, it would lay draped over her chair in the flat. John didn't seem to notice it was Moriarty's jacket; who would? It was just a jacket, an insignificant article of clothing to most.

She found herself sliding her fingers down the jacket when she was in deep thought, and on rare days, she would remember sliding her fingers down the jacket and straightening it for James Moriarty, and she would seem to snap out of a trance and throw it off in disgust and disdain because of who it once belonged to. It wouldn't lie on the floor long. She would find herself feeling empty like something was missing before she would pick it back up, take it to the cleaners, and continue wearing it like it was part of her.

It had become her anchor, her lifeline, and despite everything she knew about this damn jacket, she couldn't tell you why.

* * *

A/N: This will be separated into three distinct parts. You know the name of the first one now, but I am being resistant into telling the names of the parts of the other.

Ready for insanity? I hate to be a troll (no I don't), but I have never written anything as dark and as twisted as this. I was laughing, crying, and panicking all at the same time when I wrote this. I broke my own heart and more than once my own jaw dropped at what was happening. So be ready readers! You're about to go on a roller coaster!


	2. Never Better

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**SPOILERS for the first episode for season three. . Guarantee you can find it on youtube. looked for it earlier today and did find it with little searching**

* * *

Jen sat with her legs crossed staring at the clock as she tapped her nails against her coffee mug. She hated this waiting nonsense, but she was very excited for her companion to arrive and join her for coffee or tea, whichever he preferred. She glanced at the clock again as the bell rang out letting her know that someone had entered. Her eyes darted to the man approaching her. She cringed at the mustache on his face.

"Get rid of it," she told him as she stood to greet him. She crossed her arms in front of her chest ready to take a stand against the atrocity.

"What?" he asked pausing in front of her.

"The mustache," she told him with a sigh. "Get rid of it." They both stared at each other before they laughed and hugged. "How are you, John?" she grinned sitting down.

"I'm good, real good," he replied. "How was the case in uh… what was it?" He tried to search for the name, but she was so often gone out of the country that it was hard to keep track these days.

"Peru," she reminded him with a smile. "It was… a disaster." She tossed her head back and laughed amused by the very idea of the case; he smiled happy to see the woman so put together after everything. She was back on her feet quicker than he was, and now, after nearly two years, everything, as far as he could tell, seemed to be perfect for her. He was happy for her. "How's Mary? I haven't gotten a chance to speak to her since I got back."

"She's well," John said. "I uh… I'm going to ask her to marry me." Jen put down the cup of coffee she was sipping.

"You sure?" Jen asked with a frown. The two hadn't known each other horribly long, and maybe it wasn't such a fantastic idea.

"Yes, of course. You're the one who introduced me to Mary," John reminded her. She waved him off with a frown.

"Pardon," Jen said with a smile. "I'm all about taking things slow."

"Yes, I recall Mark complaining about you being a snail," John informed her making her chuckle. "How is he? Have you seen him and Lucy?"

"Of course," Jen said sitting back and drinking her coffee. "They picked me up from the airport, and we had late dinner last night."

"You uh…," John shuffled and cleared his throat, "you got in a relationship pretty fast after Sherlock. You sure you're alright?" She sighed and set her cup on the table. She took a breath and leaned her head back considering the question.

"I'm a creature of," she shook her head and started over. "When things around me change without my consent, I feel the need to change everything in my life as a way to balance out the things I couldn't change. That's why I quit my job and became a consulting detective; that's why I moved even if just a few floors above; that's why I got a dog, and that's one of the reasons that I started dating Mark."

"It's not a very good reason; you're using him as a rebound. You've been dating him for a year and half now, Jen. You rarely have sex-"

"Oi," she objected, "that's not your business."

"Mark's a friend," John reminded her. She rolled her eyes and made a hand gesture to allow him to continue. "He's asked you to move in with him; you've said no. He's asked to move in with you; you said no. He's asked you to marry him; you said no."

"It's all too much too fast," she argued. "Hell, the chemicals that the brain releases when you first meet people doesn't dull down until a year after you've been dating, you know?"

"Where'd you learn that?" he asked suspicious about the sudden chemistry knowledge. She loathed chemistry.

"Averay's been trying to teach me chemistry," she told him bitterly making him laugh. "She say I'm incompetent; I hate being undermined by a teenager."

"How is your Doctor Watson?" he joked. Averay had become her assistant now that the girl was going to university in the city. She was studying psychology like Jen, but she had a decent amount of knowledge in subjects Jen lacked proving her to be quite useful. Chemistry proved to be the most useful.

"Oh, she would like to think I'm her Doctor Watson," she teased him making him laugh.

"Well, she is a Holmes," John said.

"Arrogant like one too," she assured him making him chuckle. John frowned realizing something very seriously wrong with their conversation. He shook his head.

"Wait, wait, wait, you got me off track," he argued. "Mark! Do you even love him?"

"I care about him very deeply," she told him with a nod.

"That's not love, Jen," he reminded her making give him a face of annoyance. He smiled at her; sometimes, she reminded him of Sherlock. On some days, that was good, and on others, it was terrible to be reminded of their now gone friend. "Well, you shouldn't pull him along if you're not going anywhere."

"Sometimes going nowhere is the best destination in the world," she told him with a sigh.

"And sometimes, it's simply going nowhere," he replied obviously. "He loves you, Jen; Lucy loves you. Don't ruin that."

"I won't," she assured him. Her hands started tapping against her glass again. "I'll be out of town again," she informed him.

"Where are you going?"

"Russia," she told him. "I just took the case this morning. It's a kidnapping/murder/rape, so that's always pleasant. Damon said he'll keep watching Toby for me."

"The dog likely misses his owner," John told her with a smile. "We all do; you never seem to be in the country since… well, you know."

"No, no," she said shaking her head. "It has nothing to do with that, John. I like being out of the country. I just didn't the last few years because well, I had a normal people job. Why did I want one of those?" John laughed making her grin before she looked at her watch. "My plane leaves soon; I should go." They both stood, and Jen kissed his cheek gingerly. "I'll be back soon, and I'll stay for a bit. Promise."

"I'll take your word for that," John said with a smile. "You, Mark, Mary, and I can go out to dinner together. Leave Myra to watch Lucy."

"Sounds a bit grown-up," she replied in mock horror before he grinned, and she waved at him rather airily and disappeared out into the streets. He watched her go; perhaps, Sherlock Holmes's death was the best thing to happen to her. After all, Ginevra Lorraine hadn't had an attack in two years.

* * *

He was bleeding out all over the clean floor sporting possibly a broken nose with Mycroft looking rather smug standing just feet away. Over him stood a rather tall blonde man, who given the state of his suit and hands would cause one to believe he didn't have much in him let alone a punch hard enough to break someone's nose. He was beginning to wonder if the Verown family were all some sort of genetic experiment. This was the second time he's broken something at their hands.

"What in the hell was-"

"You hurt my sister, Holmes" Robert Verown informed him, "so I broke your nose. You're lucky it wasn't your skull."

"Okay, fine," Sherlock hissed straightening himself trying to act dignified as Mycroft's assistant gave him a handkerchief. "Where's Ginny, then?" he snapped snatching the handkerchief from the woman. "You told me about John. Now, where's Ginny?"

"Not in the country," Robert told him simply. "She took a case in Russia at the last minute."

"Case?" Sherlock asked. "What do you mean case?" Robbie and Mycroft looked at each other before back at him. Did he really not know? Did he not see the papers after his 'suicide'?

"You didn't read the paper after your death?" Robbie asked.

"No," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "dull."

"She took up your position," Mycroft told him. "She takes cases others can't solve, but she often takes ones that involve her leaving the country."

"What about her job at Bart's?"

"She quit," Robbie replied. "Couldn't stand the damn place." Robbie leaned against Mycroft's desk. He was only there to make sure Sherlock got what was coming to him for all this suicide nonsense. He may have had good reason, but that didn't excuse his behavior.

"Does she still live in 221C?"

"No," her older brother replied shaking his head. Sherlock was disappointed with the news.

"She moved up to 221B," Mycroft to him.

"Oh," he said happily surprised.

"She took John's old room and keeps the place relatively the same as when you lived there. She's made a few additions and such, but she's sentimental," Mycroft replied with a tightlipped smile. A sentimental woman was not the kind that Mycroft would think his brother would enjoy the company of, yet he had never been more wrong.

"When will she be back? Why didn't you ask her to look into the terrorist cell?" Sherlock asked him.

"She'll be back when her case is over," Robbie told him, "and I don't want her involved in certain cases." Sherlock observed the German government carefully. He looked a bit worn down as if he hadn't slept for a few days; something was worrying him, something big, and more likely than not, something to do with Jen. "I'd rather she didn't get blown up thanks."

"You're concern is so touching," Sherlock replied bitterly toward him. He still didn't like Robert Verown one bit even if he had assisted him and Mycroft in his destruction of Moriarty's web. It was likely Jen's influenced him to hold Robert in such low regards, and the fact that he was a friend of Mycroft's just gave him more of a reason.

"Don't hurt my sister, Mr. Holmes," Robbie said pushing off Mycroft's desk ready leave. He was growing tired of being in the company of the Holmes brothers. "Or not even big brother couldn't stop the bullet I put in your head." Mycroft was silent as he watched Robbie leave not objecting to the threat; he glanced at Sherlock.

"Don't get on the wrong side of Robert Verown. He'll kill you without remorse," Mycroft warned him.

"I know that, Mycroft," Sherlock said viciously, "and I don't intend to hurt her. After all, I'm back! She'll be thrilled!" Sherlock clapped his hands together happily. Mycroft frowned; he didn't see the paper. He didn't see the extent that Jen defended him; he didn't see her declaration. He didn't know how much revealing his lie was going to hurt her, and Mycroft could see that; it was painfully obvious, and he pitied his little brother.

* * *

The dog barked at the stranger rather aggressively as he tried to enter Jen's flat. It was an ugly long haired, lop-eared creature, half spaniel and half lurcher, brown and white in color, with a very clumsy waddling gait, but nevertheless, it was a defensive thing.

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock called. "What is a dog doing in my flat!?" Mrs. Hudson made a tutting noise before pushing her way into the flat to see Jen's dog trying to scare off Sherlock.

"Toby, stop that," Mrs. Hudson ordered the dog who immediately stopped his barking and ran to the corner of the room lying under Jen's piano like a cowardly little thing. "Jen found him on the streets; poor thing was nearly starved to death. Damon takes care of him when Jen's gone; she went to Russia this time with Averay, you know?" Mrs. Hudson made her way into the kitchen tisking. "She left dirty dishes again!"

"Averay?" Sherlock question. His niece? What his niece doing with her? When did that happen?

"She helps Jen solve cases like John did with you," she told him with a nod. "She helps take care of Jen during bad days. Sometimes, when Jen's home, she just sits in here and starts using the most vulgar language. It's dreadful; usually Mark manages to pull her out of here despite her protests."

"Mark?" he asked spinning around to face Mrs. Hudson.

"Yes. Lucy's father; they've been dating for quite a bit now," she replied starting the dishes. "He's quite a nice fellow."

"Dating?" he spat in disgust climbing over the table to head to her in uproar. "Ginny doesn't date; it's too boringly normal!"

"Well, she does now dear," Mrs. Hudson informed him as he practically loomed over her. "A lot has changed. Marked two years since her last attack just the other month. She was very proud; everyone went out and celebrated before she went running off to Japan to solve a case." Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "Poor dear. She was devastated when she thought you died, didn't come out of her flat for days. Thought she may have… well, it doesn't matter, now. She's never been better."

* * *

Jen grinned looking at the murderer with a laugh; oh, this was fun. This was very fun. She could get used to this, she mused as she ran her fingers down the current jacket she was wearing, Moriarty's jacket, as she debated what to do. "Should I kill you or just mock you? Can you even shoot me at this range, you idiot?" she mocked the man before her with a grin that could terrify the devil himself. The killer seemed unnerved at her; he killed 46 women, and he was unnerved by her. It was a laugh; it was a riot, and Jen could only feel the adrenaline in her own veins dull as he seemed hesitate on what to do, so she mocked him. "Well!? Do it!" she shouted at him as her voice scratched hoarsely.

"Are you mad?" he asked growing rather scared of her. The brand of criminals these days were just too soft.

"Nah, I've just got no more cards in my hand," she laughed before she gripped his wrist, but not before he pulled the trigger. It didn't stop her from breaking his wrist and knocking him out even as the bullet sliced her side. She gripped her side cussing. "Fucking- ah."

"Your lack of concern for your own life is disturbing," Averay said with a sigh used to this by now. She just shrugged and grinned as she leaned on Averay, who was now taller than Jen. "Let's get you to a hospital."

* * *

Mycroft very carefully used the tweezers to enter the body. He seemed highly concentrated as the phone rang making him jump in alarm nearly causing him to curse.

"Leave it," Sherlock said intensely watching his hand. Slowly, Mycroft lower his hand to the body ready to perform the operation. This could mean life or death.

"This is Jen; I'm not here. Leave a message, or don't because I won't call you back," Jen's voice rang out as the answering machine beeped.

"Hi, Damon. This is Jen," Jen's tried voice told him making Sherlock jumped up hitting the table causing the game: Operation to buzz out making Mycroft throw the tweezers down on the board. "Your phones out-"

"You lose Mycroft," Sherlock informed him as he turned to get the phone.

"-so I just wanted to let you know that I'll be gone a few more days than expected-"

"That doesn't count," Mycroft told him refusing to loose to his little brother. "You interfered."

"-as I was shot."

"Shot!?" Sherlock shouted nearly at the phone. How did she get shot? Didn't she know how to be careful?

"Yes, I'm fine just give Averay a buzz, hon." Sherlock frantically picked up the phone to say something to her, anything. Dear Lord, did he really miss her that much?

"Hello, hello," Sherlock questioned, but the line was dead already. Cursing, he slammed the phone down; he had missed his opportunity. What he would have said to her, he didn't know.

"You could always call her," Mycroft told him setting up operation again. "Ah, that's right. She thinks you're dead."

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped sitting back in front of him ready to easily beat him in Operation at any cost. This was life and death to them; winner take all.

* * *

John wandered the flat in front of Sherlock. He looked at Jen's things and picked up the picture of Sherlock and Jen she had framed.

"I'm surprised you didn't remove these," John noted with a smile looking at the one of Sherlock and Mycroft playing pirates as children as he put the frame picture back.

"They're her things; I'll speak to her when she gets back now that she'll be sharing the flat with me," Sherlock told him watching his friend slowly look over everything; Jen had changed little in the flat surprising John. He wouldn't imagine she would be able to live in a house so haunted with memories.

"So she knows?" John asked wondering if that was what was difference between him and Jen. She had seemed never better; he seemed to have finally rebounded.

"Ginny? No. Doesn't know a thing," he replied as if there was nothing to worry about when it came to her, "but I think she'll be happy to see me." John paused and stared at him in disbelief. Did he really not know? Did she not know? Oh, dear God, this was bad; this was very bad. He had seen her once destroy everything in their flat because she thought a book was destroyed.

"She'll kill you," John told him obviously now terrified for Sherlock's life. He wasn't dead, so she would make sure her grief was for some reason.

"Hm?"

"Jen will literally murder you, Sherlock. You think she'll be pleased. She quit her job; she went mental for the few weeks," John told him. "Graffitied all of London; she loved you, and you destroyed her."

"She didn't love me; we were just friends," Sherlock said offhandedly blatantly ignoring him.

"Didn't you read the papers?" John whispered.

"Papers!? Why does everyone keep asking me that?! What papers!?" Sherlock asked. John sighed before he went and shuffled through one of Jen's draw pulling on the paper after Sherlock's death. John shoved it in his hands and sat across from him as he read over 'I Believe in Sherlock Holmes' by Jen. He skimmed over it ending with Sherlock dropping his hand and the paper from in front of his eyes in awe, confusion, and a slight amount of fear and worry. "Dear Lord, she's going to kill me."

"If Damon doesn't get to you first," John told him simply. "I would rather have Damon do it. He'll probably shoot you; Jen will likely make as painful as she possibly can." The door to the house opened and a pair of heavy shoes walk up the stairs sounding tired. "There's Damon now. Better start making excuses," John told him as the door opened to reveal the handsome blonde criminal, who looked tired from a long day of dealing with conmen. His eyes immediately fell on Sherlock, who was unsure what to say to him to prevent him from being shot.

"Not… dead," Sherlock said slowly trying to gauge his reaction. Damon stared at him as if he was frozen to the spot before Damon started laughing amused at the supposedly dead man.

"Oh, she is going to kill you," Damon said going to the answering machine as Toby came out from his hiding spot under the piano to nuzzle Damon's hand. He hit the answering machine before bending to pet the dog.

"That's it?" Sherlock asked not impressed by his reaction as he listened to Jen's voicemail. "No how did you do it? Why did you do it? I better kill you before she finds out?"

"Why? She'll be a lot less merciful than I'll be," Damon told him making him cringe. He was right. "Besides, I've withheld enough from Jen to last a lifetime. She has the right to know about you, and do what she wants with that knowledge. Hope it's bloody."

"Hey Damon. Your phones out, so I just wanted to let you know that I'll be gone a few more days than expected as I was shot. Yes, I'm fine just give Averay a buzz, hon," Jen's voice rang out making Damon sigh.

"Shot again?" John asked not surprised to hear but worried at the sort of situations she got into. "Isn't that the fifth time in the last three months?"

"She's reckless," Damon told him being the only one to believe she hadn't gotten better in the last two years but worse in her own way. The attacks have stopped, but her mental health was starting to become alarming, but where do you send a psychiatrist when she needs one of her own? "She hasn't had an attack in two years, but that doesn't mean she's better." Damon took out his cellphone and dialed her number as he took Toby's leash to take him for a walk. "Have fun on your last few days alive, Mr. Holmes, and congratulations on the engagement, John." Damon turned to leave the flat as someone on the other end answered his call.

"Well, that's a shame he didn't kill you," John said pleasantly. Sherlock looked back down at the paper and dropped it in his lap miserable.

"She's going to murder me," Sherlock told him.

"Yes."

"What do women like?" Sherlock asked him suddenly trying to think of something to do.

"What?"

"Maybe I can ease the blow," Sherlock replied desperately or this was going to end badly. She would get hurt leading him to likely be on the floor bleeding out with her standing over him shouting. Uh, this was going to be unpleasant.

"Normal women like flowers, jewelry, and chocolate," John told him. "Though Jen-"

"Ginny hates flowers as they're a symbol of death to her," Sherlock informed him. "She thinks jewelry is overrated, and she loves chocolate, but I doubt that will lessen the: I faked my death aspect."

"How do you know all that?" John asked him in awe of his knowledge of her. "You can't deduce her."

"That wasn't a deduction; that was knowledge from conversations we've had in the past," Sherlock replied as if it was all rather obvious. John wondered why he hadn't deleted those minuscule facts. "What do I do?" he asked at a complete lose about how to even tell her he was alive and survive the conversation. He barely survived telling John; there was no telling what Jen would do. She was unpredictable, and that was admirable, but not in this case. In this case, it was just dangerous.

* * *

The plane landed in London with ease, but Jen had always despised flying and got off thankful to be back on the ground. Averay was chatting away at her about chemistry making her once again feel like an idiot, but then again, she always felt like an idiot around the Holmes family.

"Oh, I told Mark I would check in when we grounded," Jen said turning on her phone as they got in a cab to head back to Baker Street. It had been off since she left the country. She never had it on during cases due to potential dangers it could cause if it rang during investigation. She simply used Averay's phone if she needed to call someone. "Anderson texted me," she mused seeing a text from Anderson. She enjoyed his little fan club, though many of the fans there like to put their own two sense into the relationship between herself and Sherlock, annoying her to no end.

"Probably another insane theory on how Sherlock's not dead," Averay said distastefully. She hated his stupid little theories; they drove her insane as they were all painfully idiotic and cliche.

"I like them," Jen told her. "I think they're thoughtful, entertaining, and a bit elaborate." She opened the text to see in all capital letters:

**NOT DEAD! **with an article attached from the press declaring Sherlock Holmes alive.

"What?" Jen said lowly staring at the phone.

"What is it?" Averay asked noting her hand suddenly curl into a ball, and her entire figure quake.

"I... I... grieved over him; I cried over him; I went to his grave," she muttered staring at her phone. She felt like she was being torn every which way and things she hadn't moved passed ripped her open making the wound fresh again. She wanted to cry, but she couldn't cry about Sherlock Holmes again. She wanted to scream, but she couldn't find the words. She was in a daze making her world spin.

"What is it?" Averay asked again causing Jen to give the phone to her. She blinked several times before she let out a low 'oh.'

"You knew," Jen said dryly still trying to find her words.

"Family… secret," she uttered making Jen drop her hand as she stared at the backseat in front of her. "Jen," she whispered slowly becoming terrified by the woman's silence. She expected a fit and screaming and threats, but not this shocked silence that hung thick. "Jen?" she questioned again as the spinning world froze and her veins froze leaving her with a pit in her stomach and a quack in her hand that would only be settled by one action. She let her intended action slip off her tongue.

"I'm going to kill him," she replied quietly as she folded her hands in her lap. Averay swallowed the bile building up in her throat; if she was screaming, it she was shouting, she would have taken her threat lightly, but Jen was rolling in cold anger. This anger was ice, and when Jen's blood froze, she was her most terrifying and most dangerous.

"Jen, Sherlock-"

"Averay, shut up," she said her words cutting through the air like steel making Averay fall silent and sit back watching her eyes dart as she began slipping on some sort of cold madness. She struggle to keep her own sanity in her grasps, but she was failing. Averay opened her mouth to say something, but the woman frightened her in a way that could not be described. The car jolted to a halt, and with what seemed like calm, Jen slipped out of the car and made her way up the stairs before crashing into Mary in the doorway.

"Jen," she said rolling with worry that didn't go unnoticed by Jen but was pushed aside.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" she asked her clearly staring forward at the wall; she was cold and clear making, but Mary had other things to worry about.

"I don't know," Mary told her. "John's phone is going to straight to voicemail so is Sherlock's. They've been working on a case involving a bombing; I'm worried."

"A bombing?" Jen asked before a smile slowly pulled across her face. "Oh, that's perfect."

"For what?" Mary asked confused. Jen grinned at her rocking on her feet; something was off; something wasn't right with her.

* * *

Jen's feet crunched on the ground as Toby lead both her and Averay through the tunnels toward what could only be their destination. Though an older dog, Toby was a hell of a tracker and was fowling with ease.

"Jen, Sherlock was only trying to do what he-"

"Sh," Jen replied putting a finger to her lips. She seemed actually rather pleased by this situation scaring Averay more than needed. Jen's flashlight caught the sight of an old carriage abandoned out on the track; she could hear the distinctive sound of John yelling. "Take Toby, and get out of here," Jen told her giving her the flashlight.

"But-"

"Do as I say," she ordered making the girl huff and take the dog's leash. Jen finished walking down the tracks before she ripped the door to the carriage open. Sherlock and John spun around to her.

"Jen... what are you doing here?" John asked as she slowly lifted herself into the carriage, but she didn't answer as she stared at Sherlock.

"Are you going to shoot me?" he asked.

"I have no gun on me, or I assure you I would," she replied, "but I don't need one. You can search all you want for a method on how to defuse a bomb. You won't find it." They continued staring at each other; Jen was trying to assess if this was real, if it was happening. Sherlock was trying to decide if she had a good enough grip on her already shaky sanity; he wasn't sure he would be walking off the train alive.

"How do you know that he doesn't?" John argued trying to break the tension. Jen looked at Sherlock and gestured to explain how she knew that.

"Damn," Sherlock muttered remembering how she knew. "I told her it wasn't necessary as my job is to find the terrorist not defuse the bomb, but you, Ginny, you wonderful enigma! You know how!" He was testing her, seeing what would happen. He was in uncharted territory, and she might just let them blow up.

"You know how to defuse a bomb?" John asked her. "How? You don't even know how to update your computer."

"Shut up," she told him shaking her head.

"So defuse it," John gestured at the bomb in the hidden compartment. He was trying to pretend that this was going to happen, that she was there to save them even though it was all obvious.

"No," she told him simply.

"I'm sorry?" John asked deflating hoping that this wasn't the case, but it proved to be in fact what she wanted. She was about to watch the two die with her in the flames for Sherlock's deceitful behavior. It was dramatic, but then again, if Jen did something, it was either all the way or not at all. This seemed right up her alley.

"No," she said sitting down in one of the seats of the cart.

"What do you mean no?" Sherlock snapped. Even though he was suspecting her behavior from the minute he opened that railway carriage, he hoped she wouldn't risk the lives of all of parliament for her little vendetta. It secretly pleased him that this wasn't the case. "If you don't defuse the bomb, we're not the only ones who will die, Ginny. What do you mean no?"

"I thought you were dead, Sherlock," she practically whispered as she pulled at the edge of her red winter jacket. "I want an explanation and an apology, or us as well as all of parliament is going to burn. So I suggest you find the time, sit, and explain." Sherlock stared at her before he let out a laugh.

"You always were brilliant, Gin," he told her sitting across from her in the tube. "You know what Moriarty wanted to do. You knew he gave me-"

"Yes, yes, shut up. We don't have much time," she told him. "I get that. Why did you wait two years to tell me? I don't understand."

"Because Moriarty didn't have a gun on you, Ginny," he replied simply.

"What?" Jen asked with a frown not happy with his reply. "What do you mean? Why would that stop you?"

"He didn't have a gun on you, because he had other plans for you. I feared telling you without knowing what he wanted would not end well."

"Well, what did he want?" she asked her inquiries quickly took priority over the desire to strangle him with her bare hands.

"I questioned every member of Moriarty's web, and I have no idea, Ginny," he told her. "I have no idea what he wanted from you and what he planned. No one did, so I came back hoping you had an explanation. Hoping something has happened that would show me what it is he wanted." Jen paused and stared at him before she rubbed the back of her neck.

"I confronted James right before he went to Bart's," she admitted quietly. "I offered to give him everything, anything he desires. He refused and knocked me unconscious… he carried home, left me with his jacket, and asked Mrs. Hudson to take care of me. For two years, I have been trying to figure out why, and I have no idea. Does that tell you anything?"

"Yes and no," Sherlock told her before pushing his hands in his thinking position.

"I don't think now is the time to really be discussing this," John told them both in alarm. Jen leaned back from her previously bent in position and crossed her legs.

"Why?" she asked.

"Why?! Why?!" he asked with a nervous laugh. "There is a bomb-"

"Oh, that," Jen said rolling her eyes before she looked down at the bomb's timer. "Well, there's only thirty seconds left. I want an apology."

"And apology? For what? For potentially saving your life?" he questioned.

"For leaving me," she told him simply. "You committed the worst offense any human ever could toward me, and you know I mean that." He watched her with shifting eyes.

"Sherlock! Just apologize!" John ordered starting to panic as the clock clicked down toward the last moments. He continued to stare at her; he knew to an extent how much this would hurt her. She was a BPD patient, and to leave her crushed her, but he didn't really know how much it had hurt her until he saw the paper, until he saw with his own eyes the article telling him she loved him.

"You know I'll let this bomb go off," she told him.

"I know," he replied making her give him a curious look, "but if I did apologize now, who's to say it's not because I don't want to let myself die. I like me too much." She supressed the urge to laugh and smile before she replied.

"Be sincere," she answered. "I'll know if you're lying."

"Oh God," John muttered realizing that this conversation could go on until the bomb ticked down to its last. Sherlock took his time to find the words.

"Ginny, Ginevra," he started, "I'm so sorry. I swear if there was any other way without bringing potential harm to you, I would have chosen that option." Jen took a breath and skimmed his eyes trying to find a hint of a lie as John continued to panic. She found it to be true, but it didn't make her feel better.

"I don't forgive you," she told him making his whole body fall in surprised pain. Jen fished out her mobile and quickly opened a seemingly normal app. The countdown on the bomb froze as they saw several flashlights coming toward them down the tunnel.

"Ah, and that's the police I told Averay to call," she told them.

"What is that?" John asked pointing at her phone.

"Just my phone," she replied simply tossing it in her hand.

"And you used it to defuse the bomb?"

"I have an app for that," she told him making both her and Sherlock laugh as John started muttering 'Jesus' under his breath.

* * *

"Ah, fresh air," she said taking deep breaths as they came out from the underground with Averay and Toby both waiting for them on the surface. Averay was nervously fidgeting with the leash in her hands.

"Defused?" Averay asked, but it was really a question to break her out of her thoughts as she seemed to be considering something.

"Mm?" she questioned before shaking her head. "Yes," she said cheerily before she turned to Sherlock. "I've just forgotten something."

"What's that?" Sherlock asked confused before she punched him in the face and then kneed him in the stomach as he bent over in pain causing him to fall to the ground.

"If you ever do that to me again," she warned him, "I swear to God you will wish you would have died on that rooftop. If you think you know pain, you have no fucking idea. Do you understand me?"

"Perfectly," he groaned slowly trying to get up from the ground after being punch for the fifth time that week. To his surprise and disappointment, she seemed to lack the strength to even make him bleed.

"Great," she said with a shade of happiness. "Come on, Averay. We have to get to the flat and write up the last case." She started down the street, and John and Sherlock caught up to them. "Who else knew?" she asked him.

"Hm?"

"Well, your family knew, and who else?"

"Some members of my homeless network… MollyandRobbie," he added at the ended in such rapid succession that Jen nearly had to ask him again. She shook her head in annoyance.

"Right," she said clenching her teeth. Robbie was simply trying to pry his way into her life again, surprise, surprise. But Molly? Molly had watched her break apart; she had watched her cry and watched her heartbreak, and she said nothing. That just wouldn't do. Then again, Averay had a hundred opportunities to tell her and never said a word. Perhaps she shouldn't have been angry with Molly.

"I know you're angry-"

"No," she told Sherlock cutting him off surprising him.

"No?" he questioned. She turned to look him, so he could fully understand what she was feeling, and that she meant every word she said.

"I'm disappointed in you," she replied. "I thought John and I meant more to you than that."

"I did this, so you wouldn't get hurt," he snapped at her.

"No, you did this, because you didn't think it would hurt," she told him. "Never have you been so wrong, and never have felt more ashamed of you." She turned on her heels and continued down the street.

"Ginny," he said weakly, but she didn't hear him, only John did, and perhaps John had initially been angry with Sherlock, but he did pity Sherlock. Jen was harsh with her words when they expected it to be violent and messy. She was cold, clear, and concise.

"She'll forgive you," John assured him watching her back as she retreated away from them with Averay at her side, and Toby trotting next to her. "I thought she was to kill you on the carriage. It's was terrifying."

"I rather she had lashed out more in physical anger," Sherlock told him with a sigh. "It would have been easier."

"Give it time," John replied before they both made to catch up with them. They were silent all the way back to Baker Street. When they entered, Mrs. Hudson came in and started a pot of tea as she rambled to Jen how great it was to have the boys back, and Jen mmed at her comments distracted by a cluster of papers on her desk, which happened to be Sherlock's old desk. She picked up an old newspaper before collapsing in her chair to read it.

"Did you call Mark?" Averay called from the kitchen as she put on the kettle.

"Hm?" Jen questioned not hearing her or perhaps not listening. She often ignored Averay causing the girl to think Jen had picked up some of Sherlock's habits over the last few years.

"Did you call Mark?" Averay asked again walking into the sitting room. Jen let the paper fall before looking to the girl.

"Why would I call Mark?" she questioned with a frown. Averay gave her a look of surprise waiting for her to realize why she had to call Mark. "Oh… Oh!" she shouted out before finding her cell phone and dialing his number. "Hello, darling. This is Jen; I landed about an hour or so ago. I'm currently at home if you want to drop by, or you can give me a ring." She hung up the phone.

"Voicemail?"

"Obviously," she said before she flipped the page in the paper.

"Anything good?" Averay asked.

"No," she replied throwing the paper aside tired with it before her eyes fell on Holmes. "Why are you still here?"

"I live here," he informed her.

"No."

"Yes," he replied. "I've already settled in."

"You can't live here," Jen told him bluntly as she stood from her chair to confront him.

"Why?"

"Because I live here," she said as if it was obvious.

"Yes, I can see that, Ginny. I'm not any idiot, but since all my things are here, it seems I live here too."

"No, you can't. I'm not happy with you, and I need time to cope not to mention the accusations that would be made if we lived in the same flat," she argued.

"Who cares what people say?" he asked bored with the idea of what must go on in normal people's minds.

"I do," she told him irritated. "I have a…" She seemed hesitant to say she was in a relationship, and it didn't go unnoticed, "…a boyfriend, and he won't exactly be thrilled with me sharing a flat with you especially after… No! You can't live here!"

"What are you going to do? Kick me out?"

"Yes."

"Actually, dear, Sherlock's name is still on the lease," Mrs. Hudson chimed in. "You never bothered changing the name."

"Good job, Mrs. Hudson," John encouraged with a smile so quietly only Mrs. Hudson heard him. He wanted things to try and go back to the way they were, and the only way to do that was to make sure the two, who were once practically a couple, were at least on friendly terms.

"Ha! So technically I could kick you out!" Sherlock said smugly.

"No, you will not, Sherlock Holmes!" she shouted irritated. "I will never speak to you again if you try!"

"Actually, her name replaced John's on the lease," Mrs. Hudson informed him.

"Ha!" she argued back. "Nice try!"

"Well, then it seems we're at an impasse," he replied pleased with the fact that he technically got his way. She frowned.

"Oh, I hate you," she snapped collapsing back in her chair before Averay handed her a cup of tea. She took it out of her hands before throwing it Sherlock's head starting what would certainly be an arrangement that left them at each other's throats.

* * *

A/N: What? What? What? I got twenty reviews and a whole slew of follows of course. I am so pleased with all of you I could kiss you, or not, because human contact is... I'm like Sherlock with human contact, so how about I give you thumbs up... no? Alright then, awkward virtual hug it is.

Yes! I'm early because of all the reviews and I figure I could post again on Sunday after the last episode of the season. This will be the only spoiler chapter until after part one is over. See you Sunday! Review please darlings! I would like to know what you think! And I'm glad Moriarty's jacket through some of you off. I would never be so obvious ;D

Thanks to reviewers (jesus this is going to be a doozy): Feint Illusion, Lunar678, , hannahhobnob, TinkerbellxO, smilin steph, Protagonist of Life, short-skirtbluescarf, knetterzak, jessicaj321, Liberty Blake, leaisnotonfire, OddPotato, xJillPhantom, MarchHoliday, Flute Domination, scarlet tribe, and. .okumura. There was so many of you that if I skimmed passed you or screwed up your user name my apologies! And thank you for all of you who came back for the sequel!

And for those who told me to bring it on, it will be brought... except... not now... or yet because you know have to get through the initial set up... but YEAH! It'll be brought!


	3. Emotions

Jen sat in her chair staring at the wall while Mary and Mrs. Hudson talked about the future wedding. It was agonizing; these people in her flat were making her exhausted. Couldn't they just leave her be? Better yet, couldn't she just get a case already?

"Oi, that's my champagne," she argued watching Sherlock pour the glasses. "Don't touch my things."

"It's for the guests, Ginny. One must be a proper host," he mocked not caring one way or another what being a proper guest meant. They had been going at it all day putting Jen in a rather desolate mood while Sherlock, though stung by her cold behavior, was actually in quite a good humor being back on John's good side again. It was only a matter of time before Jen came around. It had to be; he was sure of it.

"You will be there Sherlock," Mary hoped talking of the wedding again trying to change topics seeing the tension between the two. Tension could be defused; she could defuse it, she was sure. Things would turn around; they would be friends at the very least. They had to be.

"Weddings… not really my thing," he told her.

"He'll be there," Jen assured her with a sigh disliking the idea of a wedding more and more. "If I get to sit through a dull wedding ceremony, so does he."

"Thanks, Jen," Mary grinned at her ignoring the dull insult placed in there. She waved her off slumping farther in her chair as if she was trying to gain someone's attention to tell them how very uninteresting this all was to her. She hated weddings; maybe it was the fact that she herself never wanted to get married or because every wedding she's ever been to forced her in some frilly dress only to be bored to tears with a slur of words having to do with love and all that fluffy nonsense she despised. "Are you bored?"

"She hasn't had a case since we got back," Averay informed her smirking at Jen, who gave her a distasteful look that clearly said get me a damn case or find me something to do. "With Sherlock Holmes back, she's sort of out of business." Jen rolled her eyes; in the end, Averay was right. Sherlock was better at case solving than she was leaving her without a job.

"I need a job," she told them though she sounded less than pleased with the idea. "Something to keep me busy."

"Try one of the theaters," Damon replied leaning back with his arm wrapped around Myra, who was currently sharing the flat downstairs with Damon and helping him run his business if it could be called that. How times change. "You've always wanted to perform on stage. Might as well try now that you are lacking in a job."

"Mm," she replied as the door opened to the growing blonde girl that always seemed to be smiling. It lifted her mood considerably as she sat up to smile at her, but Lucy ignored Jen going straight to Sherlock, who she hadn't seen in two years.

"Uncle Sherlock!" she said thrilled making Jen groan and slump back in her chair. Lucy immediately latched onto him happy to see him. He winced just for a moment before he looked down at the little girl, who was growing too fast for his liking.

"You've grown a good," he paused and put his hand on her head to take an estimate compared to last time, "12 and a half centimeters since I last saw you. A bit more than average for your age."

"Yes, well, it's been two years," she told him with a grin.

"Where's your father?" Jen asked finally standing before ruffling Lucy's hair. She grinned up at Jen happy to see the woman even if she did always mess up her hair.

"He-" she was cut off by the door being half thrown open in something of a struggle. Jen pulled it all the way open to allow Mark inside.

"Sorry, I had to fight the press down there. It's a madhouse," Mark grinned coming in with a paper bag in his arms. "Groceries," he told her.

"Ah," Mrs. Hudson said standing and taking the bag, "I'll take those." She headed in the kitchen to put the groceries away in the yet to be body filled fridge. Jen was hoping to keep it that way a little longer.

"How was the trip?" he asked when Jen finally turned to him.

"Good," she said giving him a quick kiss. "Boring." She paused. She really didn't want to have this conversation now, but if it wasn't now, it would never be done. "Can we talk?" she pointed out the door, and he nodded.

"Of course." They took a step outside the flat to the landing to speak alone as Jen shut the door. Mark leaned in to give her a more involved kiss as he put his hands around her waist, but she pulled away with a laugh.

"I didn't ask you out here for a quick snog," she told him with a grin, "though I appreciate the gesture. No, I wanted to tell you that Sherlock and I… will be..." How to tell your boyfriend you'll be sharing a flat with a man you had past feelings for. They should have a book for that. "...sharing the flat for a bit."

"What?" he asked flatly. He didn't like the idea; he wasn't ignorant to the past feelings she had for him, and he feared reigniting those feelings. Jen and him didn't break up. Hell, there was nothing to break up, or so she claimed. He 'died,' and now he was back. Somehow the chances for a rekindling of romantic feelings seemed higher than say an ex-boyfriend.

"I know," she replied with a sigh. "I don't like it either, but his name is still on the lease and so is mine. I could try and get out of it, but… I have a feeling Mrs. Hudson will purposely give me a hard time." Why must everyone be a road block for her? If she chose to ignore Sherlock Holmes's exists for the rest of her life, then so be it. But no. John wouldn't have it which means Mary wouldn't have it. Mrs. Hudson wouldn't have it, and she wouldn't be surprised if some of the Holmes family wouldn't have it. "The lease ends in six months, and then, I'll just move out."

"It's your flat. Why do you have to move out?" he asked her in a low whisper aware that the door wasn't exactly soundproof. He didn't want to get on anyone's bad side especially Sherlock Holmes. He was a sociopath bordering on psychopath, who could likely have Mark thrown in prison with just a few words.

"Yes, well, technically his things are in the flat. It's not that big of a deal," she replied with a shrug. She paused as the door to 221 Baker Street opened two new visitors. "Molly, Tom," she greeted Molly and her fiancé.

"Hi," Molly smiled at her brightly making Jen fall flat. Molly watched her have a break done in the morgue, Jen finds out Sherlock is alive, and she replies with hi as if there was no problem. Maybe she was overreacting? Molly was just following Sherlock's words, and if he said to keep quiet, then there is no reason to doubt him. He was one of the most brilliant minds in the world. Maybe she shouldn't be so harsh with Molly?

"You and I are going to have a nice little chat about Sherlock's death later," she informed her making her smile fall. Just a small talk about it. Nothing harsh. She just wanted to know what happened.

"I-I didn't… I- Sherlock said-"

"Later," she replied flatly causing Molly to pause before she nodded and walked into the flat allowing Jen and Mark to continue their conversation.

"I have to admit that I'm really not looking forward to finding a new flat though. I'm very picky about where I live," she sighed. She had done a lot of work for the flat that Myra and Damon were now inhabiting. As for 221B, well, it had felt like home for a while now; it's been a while since she's had one of those.

"Yeah, you are," Mark agreed with a smile. He paused and rubbed the back of his head nervous with his suggestion not wishing to push her. "You could… you could always move in with Lucy and I," he offered. She paused to think about the prospect and if she was ready for such a commitment. Ready for it? No. Desperate to try anything new to keep her going? Yes.

"Yeah, sure, why not?" she said knowing that after almost two years perhaps she owed him to try and take the next step even though she was reluctant against it, but if she didn't try something new to get her spirits back, she would remain in the slump that she felt her life was in or beginning to sink into.

"You're going to come live with us!?" Lucy shouted making Jen jump as she turned to the flat to see Sherlock, John, and Lucy staring at them. Sherlock looked confused while John seemed to look mildly deflated though why when he was nagging her earlier for taking everything too slow was beyond her.

"Once the lease expires," she told her with a grin happy to at least be moving closer to the girl. How she missed her when she was gone, and Lucy did need a motherly figure in her life after the death of her own. Jen grew up without a mother and look how well that turned out. So, in the end, perhaps this was best at least for Lucy. "It's about time, eh?"

"Oh, I'm so excited," Lucy grinned before she threw her arms around Jen. She was only half a foot shorter than Jen now and would likely exceed her own height soon. Sometimes, Jen hated being so short.

"Luce, why don't you take your father in the flat?" John requested of Lucy, and she happily responded taking his hand and dragging him inside but not before he gave Jen a pleading look making her smile slightly before she looked to John. He sought to speak to Jen about what he was sure was a mistake on her part wishing only for the best for her.

"What is it this time, John?" Jen asked leaning on the railing of the landing turning away from him. She seemed to be worn down more than usual making John want to cringe. "First it's too slow, now it's too fast? You're getting married need I remind you?"

"You sure you want this?" he asked her wanting her to be absolutely positive with her decisions, and he knew she wasn't. He was sure this was because she was struggling to jump back from Sherlock's fake suicide, and she had turned desperate. "I know you."

"Yeah, sure," she said with a shrug as if it was the littlest decision to make and not one that could potentially change the way she lived. "I could try domestic; maybe it'll suit me." She didn't imagine it would suit her; she imagined it would be painfully dull.

"Jen, you-" John started, but she shook her head and stopped him.

"Please," she told him looking to him, "just leave it alone. I'm tired; I'm just so tired. Maybe it's time for me to settle down and be mum." Be mum. She hadn't had to be someone's mum since Irene and Peter, and look how well that turned out. Maybe it would be different this time; maybe she wouldn't be poison to Lucy as she was to them.

"You don't love him," John reminded her sure this was the case. She gave a slight laugh as her eyes looked back to the window above the door. She seemed to be reflecting on her life, on everything.

"Love has only hurt me," she informed him. "It's time to try something new."

"It won't work."

"Ah, how would you know unless an experiment is done?" she joked halfheartedly before Sherlock took several steps to her bringing him far too close to her. She stumbled back into the wall, but that didn't lessen the gap much. She pushed her hand out forcing him to stop with her hand over his heart. He looked her over quickly noting things he had missed since his return. He could still gauge her better than he could when they had first met.

"You've lost an alarming twenty pounds since I last saw you; you haven't slept in twelve days, and you're showing signs of disinterest and hopelessness," he observed before he took a step back finally reaching a conclusion. "You're clinically depressed," Sherlock noted finally understanding one of the things that had been nagging at him since he reunited with her. Something had seemed off; she wasn't her usual self, and it hadn't gotten passed him.

"What?" John asked looking back and forth between the two waiting for Jen's answer. Never better. John thought she was never better, that she had gotten over Sherlock's death with ease. She hadn't had any attacks; she formed a relationship; she seemed... happy. He thought she was happy.

"It happens," she shrugged. It had been a shallow happiness she chose to let people see.

"Medicated?"

"No," she replied. No, he didn't think she would be. She barely took her BPD medication and hated taking anything to help her sleep. She liked to try and fight it herself. She liked to endure, and she liked to fight. It was one of the things he liked about her.

"How long?" he asked. She looked at him incredulously not understanding why he didn't understand why she was depressed. He couldn't possibly be this dense. "Ginny, how long?" he asked again gripping both shoulders when she didn't answer him due to his own stupidity.

"How long do you think, you complete moron?" she asked hitting his hands away. She huffed and pushed her way passed him before she entered the flat slamming the door behind her.

"You didn't know?" Sherlock asked John. He shook his head.

"To be honest, I haven't seen Jen too much. She's usually out of the country," John informed him trying to recall the times he saw her; she always seemed happy. "I mean I've noticed that she seemed more tired than usual, but nothing completely alarming… has she really lost twenty pounds?"

"If she doesn't start gaining the weight back, she'll be alarmingly thin," he told him staring at the door she had gone through. He was worried; he wouldn't admit that, but he was. "I'll force feed her if I have to," he uttered still staring at the door.

"What made you suspect?" John asked.

"She punched me," Sherlock answered simply.

"That's not surprising; I've punched you," John reminded him. Sherlock smiled almost fondly.

"If she was healthy, she would have broken nose," Sherlock said almost amused by the memory of her hitting him. "Well, shall we get down there?" he asked speaking of the press just out the door.

"Yeah," John agreed going to follow him out the door.

* * *

Jen sat in her chair tired from the people in her flat; she wanted them gone, and Averay could see the pained expression on her face. Her landline began ringing making her groan; she was tired of people, noises, people, light, people, work, and oh yeah, people. Averay laughed before going to pick up the phone so that she didn't have to get up.

"This is Ginevra Lorraine's office. How can I help you?" Not her office, but that's what the landline was there for, for clients. There was a pause as the person on the other end replied. "Oh, alright. You don't have to be such a dick about everything." She made her way to Jen. "It's your brother. Said you won't answer your phone." No, that's because finding her charger seemed like a waste of effort and time even with her phone as dead as Sherlock was supposed to be.

"Which one?"

"Peter," she told her making her light up. Averay didn't understand it; the man was a complete psychopath, and yet, whenever he called her her face lit up like it was Christmas. He made her happier than anyone even if he was completely unhealthy for her.

"Hello, darling," she said into the phone happily. It was only a minute long conversation that allowed Jen's smile to slowly fall before she hung up the phone in utter shock and appall. She stared at the wall trying to find thoughts, words, anything of use.

"Jen?" Mary questioned seeing her face as Averay took the phone staring at her not sure what she was going to do. She had become unpredictable lately. Would you get fire, or would you get ice?

"Get out," she whispered quietly finding something to say as her brain scrambled her emotions and thoughts quickly turning them to frustration and rage. Something that hadn't happened for two years.

"I'm sorry?" Molly asked trying to remain bright despite the sudden tension that had fallen across the room.

"Get out," she said standing striding across the room and throwing the door open for them. "Get out! Everyone get out!" Everyone stared at her. "Get out, or so help me I throw you out the fucking window! Get out!" she shouted. Everyone began scrambling to leave; Damon paused on the doorstep trying to say something to her, but she quickly slammed the door closed trying to keep control of herself. She took deep breaths leaning on a chair. Everything from that day came crashing down around her. Unable to hold it in any longer, she threw the chair across the room; it created a domino effect that would eventual turn the room upside down.

* * *

By the time Sherlock and John went to check on her, she was leaning against the wall next to the fallen desk. Her jeans had somehow been ripped, her shirt was in disarray, her shoes were missing- likely out the now broken window-, and she was staring at the wall opposite as if it was most fascinating thing in the world.

"What uh…?" John began wanting to know what brought this on. To be honest, he was waiting for the attack since Sherlock got back, but something must have triggered it.

"My brother's parole hearing has been moved up," she told them as if it was that simple and didn't need anymore explaining.

"I um… I'm sorry?" John questioned.

"He won't get out," Sherlock told her obviously as he picked up his chair from the floor and sat down. "His crimes are too-"

"You don't know my brother," she snapped irritated with his input. "He'll convince them he's cured; he'll get out."

"But don't you want that?" John asked her. He was her family after all; shouldn't she be happy that he would be out in the world able to see her on their own terms and no one else's? She turned her eyes to him.

"Peter is sick," Jen replied viciously. "He needs help, and… it won't help him to be out of Rampton. My fear is that he'll relapse and start killing people; I can't go through that a second time. I can't; it'll break me." She shut her eyes and leaned her head against the wall trying to push aside those fears. She had watched her brother cave into his madness, and she had to watch him be taken away by police covered in blood and screaming about being a victim. Those days still haunted her dreams. She just couldn't do it again.

"Despite being absent from the psychology field for two years, your opinion is still valid especially as his sister," Sherlock reminded her. "Tell them that he isn't ready to be released; make them see sense."

"I," she paused for a moment to pull herself off the floor, "I suppose I could try," she muttered wrapping her arms around herself as her mind seemed a hundred miles away. Her eyes gazed at the wood floor. John cleared his throat.

"Well, I better go," he said pointing to the door. "Mary wanted to speak with you about something Sherlock. She's waiting for us both outside." Sherlock's eyes remained on Jen and her still body as she leaned into the wall. "Sherlock?"

"Hm? What? Yes," he replied leaving the flat with John to meet Mary, who was waiting for them just outside.

"How is she?" Mary asked getting to the point. She wanted to talk about him and Jen.

"Depressed," Sherlock said obviously making Mary shrugged.

"She'll be alright. I brought John around; she won't be that different," Mary smiled.

"You have to be kind to her," John offered, but Mary countered with a shake of her head.

"No, no, you have to be you," she told him with a smile. "She loves you for who you are, and that hasn't change. Just be no one but yourself, and don't push it. She'll come around; you have six months to change her mind. Oh," Mary smiled amused at the coincidence, "that should fall right around the wedding. That'll work perfectly."

"Well, I don't know what to do, and I don't like not knowing," Sherlock spat bitterly annoyed and agitated with his lack of knowledge. "I don't even know if it's safe to be around her; despite everything I did, I still don't know what Moriarty wanted with her." Mary's eyebrows furrowed as she stared at him as she put something together that no one else had besides Robert and Mycroft. It lit up her face.

"No," she said in surprise. "You didn't… Oh my God, you did."

"I'm sorry?" John asked watching as Sherlock seemed frozen to the spot watching her carefully. "Did what?"

"Don't you get it, John?" Mary asked grinning amused by him. "He burned his reputation, faked his suicide, left his home not to destroy Moriarty's web but to find out what Moriarty wanted with Jen. You did it all for her." They both stared at him, and he shifted slightly not liking being put on the spot like this especially when the subject was what he felt about Jen.

"Well… the…," he paused and seemed to find his thoughts after being accused of holding sentiment for Jen, "it was clearly obvious he had some sort of obsessive fascination with her," Sherlock informed them. "I didn't understand to what degree until she came back alive after he so eloquently took her dinner after threatening the lives of her patients. She shouldn't have come back alive; he should have shot her down as a warning to me, but instead, she came back not sporting a single injury from Moriarty. All he wished to do was talk to her not about me, but about her. It was outside of my calculations. I knew that he had become a danger to her far greater than I could conceive, and I had to find out why he was suddenly interested in her."

"Or risk losing her," Mary smiled at him.

"Oh shut up," he ordered giving her a dirty look, but she seemed smugly satisfied with her deduction.

"Well, you should tell her," Mary told him as she hailed a cab.

"I can't," Sherlock replied. "I still don't know what it is Moriarty did, and what he wanted. Coming back was even a risk I was hesitant to take."

"But Moriarty's men are dead," John reminded him. Sherlock looked at him.

"That doesn't mean that she's out of danger; he said the plans he had were already set in motion," Sherlock answered looking up to the window of 221B to where Jen would be sitting likely trying to keep her mind busy. "I just don't know what they are, and I don't like not knowing."

"Keep an eye on her then," John told him as he slide in the cab after Mary. The cab started down the road, and Sherlock turned toward the flat before changing his mind and heading off to the corner Chinese restaurant.

* * *

When he came back with takeaway, she was sitting in her chair reading another old paper. She looked at him briefly before turning back to her paper; her new favorite hobby was ignoring him.

"Eat something," he told her throwing the bag at her. She barely caught it.

"Not hungry," she replied setting the found onto the floor near her chair. Toby, who remained at her feet, nuzzled it with his nose. He had just been fed, but he wanted people food. She patted his head to stop him from nuzzling the bag. Sherlock threw himself in his chair before he leaned over to gaze at her intently. For a small period of time, she ignored him, but his intense gaze made her uneasy. "Stop it," she warned him before she returned to the paper and held it in front of her, so she didn't have to look at Sherlock's accusing stare. She slowly lowered the paper to see him still staring at her. "Would you stop that!?"

"Eat something first," he replied.

"Are you going to eat something?" she asked giving him a questionable look. She refused to eat if he wouldn't; why would she listen to a hypocrite?

"If you do, I will concede," he challenged her making her pause and stare at him. She didn't think he would actually agree to eating something.

"Fine, let's get this over with," she muttered standing to get a set of plates, forks, knives, and a glass of left over champagne, because lord knows she needed it. She threw herself in the chair at the kitchen table that was void of experiments so far. Sherlock sat across from her, and they began to eat in complete and utter silence while Toby begged at their feet.

He eyed her from across the table and noted the jacket she was wearing. He could easily spot that jacket anywhere. Westwood. There was no one else it could belong to. Why the hell was she wearing that jacket? She should have buried it, burnt it, tossed it; she shouldn't be wearing it.

"Are you wearing that jacket to annoy me?" he asked as he felt his body twitch from annoyance.

"Hm?" she questioned before her free hand found the edge of the jacket. It slid down the jacket carefully; it was involuntary. She didn't realize she was doing it as if her hand had a mind of its own.

"Moriarty's jacket? Westwood, why are you wearing it?" he ground out making her look down at the jacket.

"Oh… I… I just like it," she said before she quickly ripped her hand from the fabric. "I wear it quite a bit actually; I think I look... nice in it."

"You like his…," Sherlock bit his tongue trying to find a more elegant word than whore, "courtesan."

"Oh, glad you like it," she said with a mocking smile. She was trying to find every reason to annoy him, and it was working.

"Take it off," he demanded not wanting to see any reminder of Moriarty and therefore his lack of knowledge on the subject anywhere especially in his flat... eh... their flat.

"No," she said simply.

"If you don't take it off, I'll rip it off you," he threatened.

"If you try and rip off my clothes, I'll claim rape," she told him simply.

"No one would believe you," he replied, "so take it off."

"No."

"Ginny," he snapped standing now ready to be true to his word, "you are purposely being difficult."

"Oh, of course I am," she told him slowly standing to challenge him.

"Take off the jacket," he warned.

"Make. Me." She was unprepared when he tackled her to the floor just to take the jacket off her thinking he was bluffing. "Get off of me!" she shouted attempting to pry him off her but failing. What the hell happened? It used to be so easy. Had she become so weak? She still fought on a regular basis, but looking back, she had been loosing and getting more severely injured more and more.

"Take off the damn jacket!" he shouted at her pulling at the jacket.

"No!" she shouted before- "Rape! Rape! Rape!" all the while Sherlock manage to get the jacket off her and was standing holding it triumphantly. "You asshole!" She tackled him back to the ground giving up on the jacket ready to strangle the life out of him.

* * *

"I was pulled out of my office by a concerned neighbor claiming someone was shouting rape," Lestrade reprimanded the two as they stood in front of the house. He had taken the call due to the location of the complaint, but should have known that it was nothing of importance, just two adults acting like children. "Someone better start explaining."

"Sherlock tried to rape me," Jen told him quickly, "and then he tried to kill me. See this bruise," she said pointing out a slowly forming black and blue mark forming on her neck.

"I was defending myself when she was trying to asphyxiate me," Sherlock snapped.

"Because you tried to rape me," she said obviously.

"Right," Lestrade said shaking his head not believing he had to deal with this. "I'm going back to the Yard. Would you two please try and act like grown adults for once?" He made to go back to his police car.

"Aren't going to do something? I was just sexually assaulted!" she called.

"Yes, I'll give you my personal advice," Lestrade told her. "Do us a favor and have a go at it already." He slid in his car as Jen gave him an offended look at his 'personal advice.'

"Yeah, how about I have a go at your wife!? Everyone else already has!" she shouted as he drove away.

"Low blow, Ginny, even to me," Sherlock told her.

"Oh, shut up," she snapped at him before she turned on her heels to go back inside. "I'm going to bed!" she announced. "Leave me alone!"

"Only if you actually sleep," he called after her making her scoff in annoyance. He was driving her up a damn wall. How the hell was she going to deal with him for six months?

* * *

A/N: They're like children; it's ridiculous. Yup, there's that. I'll see you all hopefully Wednesday! Review please!

Thanks to reviewers: short-skirtbluescarf, .okumura, Dream01, hannahhobnob, smilin steph, MariaAquarius, and Camilla!


	4. The Carver

Jen stood in the doorway watching the various protesters with their picket signs and their chants. They were against the idea of releasing Peter 'The Carver' Verown, and they wanted to make it known that for his crimes he shouldn't even have a chance at parole. Yet, they could do nothing; somehow despite everything Peter had done and despite being found guilty of killing nine out of the hundreds he murdered, the judge granted the opportunity of parole far earlier than many got. Jen wasn't sure if it was the lawyer they had, or some unknown bribe that had taken place; she was always suspicious on the matter but said nothing.

"Doctor Lorraine," a voice called. She turned to see the very pricey lawyer that was paid for by an unknown benefactor. He was a tall dark man in an even darker suit, who always had a smile on his face. He was amiable, and that's why he was so good at convincing the jury and judges of what he wanted.

"Presley," she smiled sticking out a hand. He shook it.

"So, I suppose I should ask," he started knowing her better than any lawyer should know their clients, "are you going to defend your brother, or are you going to throw him under the bus?"

"I don't know," she admitted having struggled with the decision for the last few days. She knew the right thing to do was to tell the board he wasn't ready for this, yet she had always struggled with doing the right thing especially when it involved Peter. "Would you stop me if I chose to throw him under the bus?"

"No," he shook his head. He didn't really understand the Verown family, but he chose not to question it after the years he knew them. He wasn't paid to question them; he was paid to protect them from the law in a way only a man in his profession could. "Your opinion matters to Peter, and he wants you as his character witness either way."

"Mr. Kyle, they're ready," a woman interrupted before turning and leaving as quickly as she had appeared.

"Are you ready? His victims families will be there, and it will be rather intense." That mattered little to Jen; she had been their at the trial. It didn't bother her then, and it wouldn't bother her now.

"I'm ready," she told him with a nod. He put a gentle hand on her back and led her to the white room where Peter sat staring at the board members with his hands and legs in cuffs. He smiled gingerly at her, and she nodded to him before sitting down. He was looking hopefully optimistic with a dash of fake modesty.

* * *

"My name is Janis Klienfield," the mousy woman said standing in front of the board. "Peter Verown killed my younger sister when she was just thirteen. She did nothing to him. Yet, he committed a horrible act against her. I lost her, because of him. She will never breath again because of him."

...

"I'm Phillip Veil, the son to Darell Veil. Peter Verown murdered him in cold blood. Because of him, my mother committed suicide; my brother is now in a mental institution, and he has ruined so many families. He is sick and twisted and no amount of time in a mental health facility could help him. If you release him, you will have more blood on your hands."

...

"Name?" the board asked the small woman when at first she said nothing. Jen watched her exhausted by this already. The woman in front of the board was still traumatized; it was painfully obvious.

"Nina Parkinson," she whispered so quietly the board could barely hear her.

"You're Sarah Parkinson's sister?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Things... were never same after... I started having nightmares about his face... it's always his face... his hands covered in blood. I couldn't even recognize my sister... I couldn't... understand why."

...

The victim's families all stood up and exclaimed what he had done, how he had torn them apart, how he had ruined them beyond repair, and then they call Jen to speak. She could feel the judging eyes of the families on her, but she tried to keep her eyes forward. How many of them suspected she had a hand in the murders? If she had to bet, she would say far more than half.

Jen stood in front of the parole board fidgeting with the edge of her skirt; she wanted to be there for her brother, but it just seemed… impossible. She had to give her honest opinion, didn't she? How could she allow him to leave Rampton after everything? He wasn't better; he wasn't remorseful. If he was released, the deaths would start again. He couldn't help himself anymore than a painter could help painting; he was ill, and that would never change.

"Doctor Lorraine," the parole commissioner said looking at Peter's files to examine her involvement; they would find nothing, "you have the floor." She took a step up to the parole officers and looked at each of them trying to get a feel for them. They were calm, too calm like they've already decided. No matter what she said, that would not change their decision, but even then, she could not decide whether to help Peter or damn him.

"My name is Doctor Ginevra Lorraine… I'm a former criminal profiler for Scotland yard and the British government, a psychiatrist at Saint Bart's, and a consulting detective. I also happen to be the woman who raised Peter since our mother left. He's done terrible things in the past," she said pausing. Could she really judge her brother for what he's done? "He had a serious condition; he doesn't understand sympathy and remorse. He believed he did what he did for the sake of the people he cares about including myself. But he's changed." She lied. There was a wave of whispers and scowls from the families. She pushed them back to continue. "He shows sympathy and sorrow and regret for what he did showing that he has had a breakthrough. Sociopaths and Psychopaths don't feel like that; they are different from us. I believe that given time and love he can be properly integrated into society." She looked to him and smiled gently, and he nodded back to her. "I love my brother, and I don't wish to see him get worse, only better. I will take care of him and watch him as I should have when we were children."

"Thank you, Doctor Lorraine," the officer said, and she down back in her chair wondering what consequences this would bring. She wasn't particularly pleased with what she had done, but how could she betray blood? He was the only family now that Irene had disappeared.

* * *

She wrung her hands together as the board deliberated, but it wasn't long before the head of the hearing calmed everyone down.

"Peter Verown, you had been charged with the crime of nine of the most heinous murders I have ever seen. That being said, it was the product of a tainted mind that has now been healed." The crowd in the room already started getting restless as they began shouting objections. "Parole granted," the man said before slamming his gavel on the table. Peter's face split into a grin as the victims families became angry and disturbed by the lack of injustice.

"Thank you, sir. Thank you," he exclaimed with a slight bow of his head. Peter Verown, the Carver would be released.

* * *

Peter was dressed in jeans and a shirt that Jen had brought him. The few personal affects he had before he went to Rampton including a watch Jen had gotten him, a beat up leather wallet, and a small pocket book were returned to him. When Jen lead Peter out of Rampton, the press was waiting for them snapping pictures at every opportunity.

"Doctor Lorraine," some shouted trying to get her attention. She ignored them not wishing to deal with the press as they always twisted people's words.

"Mr. Verown," other's shouted trying to talk to him, and he would be happy to give them a word if he knew he wouldn't loose his sister in the crowd. She looked less than pleased, which actually amused him. She was always so changeable.

"Carver!" she heard making her cringe. She even caught a few: "Mrs. Holmes!" in there making her cringe more. Jen wanted to duck out of their eyes, but Peter couldn't resist. No, of course he couldn't. He was a psychopath, and he needed an audience; that was one of his downfalls. He loved the attention he got as The Carver even when they didn't know it was him. He loved it even more when they did know it was him.

"Ladies and gentleman," he called out to them as they reached the car. She wanted to whack her head into the car in hopes she would be spared the lies she was about to hear. "I want to give you all," he paused looking at all the cameras with a hand on his heart, "a heartfelt apology. I was a victim of circumstance and madness, but I am better. I never meant," he took a moment to 'collect' himself. What an actor. "...I'm so sorry for all the pain and misery I have caused. No one deserves that, and I hope…," cue the fake tears, "I so hope I can make you all see I have changed. I am not the monster I was. Thank you for your time." He nodded before he slid into the passenger side. Jen started the car, and they drove away. Peter was grinning entertained by the gullibility of the press; he saw one reporter tearing up at his statement. Sympathizers, especially in women, were easy to get if you knew what to say, and he had a silver tongue.

"Was that necessary!?" she snapped at him. He looked at her still smiling not bothered with her anger. He had seen her far more intense than she was now; now, if she was giving him the cold shoulder, if she was as silent as the grave and as cold as ice, he may be bother, but this wasn't even in the same realm as that sort of anger.

"What?" he asked her playing innocent giving her a pretty smile and a pair of doe eyes. He was damn good at feigning innocence, but she wouldn't have any of it; she never would.

"You think I'm an idiot?" she hissed at him as her grip on the steering wheel increased stretching the skin across her knuckles giving them a white appearance. "I know you aren't better, Peter, and I know you didn't mean a word of what you said. I can tell when you're lying; I watched you do it for five years to innocent people."

"You didn't seem to care at the time, Gina," he said airily. "In fact, I think you rather liked the killing and lying." He let a slow lazy smile fall across his face as she began to animatedly objecting, but he cut her off with a question. "Then why did you vouch for me?" he asked her. She sighed.

"Because half those people weren't you," she told him. "How could I tell the board you're still a psychopath when half the people you claimed to kill were mine?" she asked him. She tried to search for a memory of those men and women she had killed with her own hands, but god help her, she couldn't. She had pushed them down so far, she couldn't call upon them if she wanted to. They only haunted her in her dreams when her subconscious was awake.

"It was less than half, and you could have told them. I wouldn't have judged you," he replied casually. There was no doubt he cared for his sister. Despite everything that went on his mind, that was certain. "What right do I have to judge you?"

"And what right do I have to call you crazy?" she asked wondering how far her sanity had gone then, and how close to the edge of madness she was becoming. She seemed to be slipping lately, tumbling on what should have been the even stones of sanity. "I'm giving you the benefit of the doubt, Peter. Please, don't let me down. Show me you've changed." She was silent as was he. Peter's hand was curled in a ball as he thought on her words. They made him anxious. He knew he would disappoint his sister in the end as he had plans, beautifully terrible plans. How to change that...? How can he get the girl he knew during his days of The Carver, the girl who would question his chose of victim and not his actions?

"Where are we staying?" he asked her trying to switch gears. He would put these concerns aside for a different time.

"I have a flat with Sherlock Holmes in London," she told him. He hadn't been informed of the odd situation she was in with Sherlock; all he knew was he was alive, and things between the two were a bit rough.

"You live with Sherlock Holmes?" Peter asked her making a face.

"Yes, well, it was the best option," she told him with a sigh not at all happy with it either. "It's a bit… complicated, okay?" she snapped. This wasn't going well. Could they have one conversation that didn't end with her irritated with him?

"Faking his own death and tearing your heart out? Yeah, I would say that makes things a bit complicated," Peter replied bitterly. He didn't like people who hurt his sister; hell, he didn't like people who even looked at his sister.

"You will be nice to him Peter or so help me," she grumbled as she dialed Sherlock's number on her mobile to inform him of the situation. He wouldn't be pleased, but perhaps a serial killer living with them would keep him from getting bored.

"You're brother's parole was granted," Sherlock deduced as soon as he answered the phone without so much as a hello, "and he'll be staying with us. Wonderful. Where is he sleeping?"

"My room," she said thinking of no better option. She wouldn't allow Peter to sleep on the couch after years of likely one of the most uncomfortable mattress that you could find.

"And you?" he questioned wondering how this was possibly going to work.

"Don't worry about it; I'll take care of it," she told him with a sigh. Things had remained tense between the two the last few days. They were unable to get over the rift in trust that had occurred. Perhaps it was unfair of her, but she didn't care if it was unfair. She was angry with him, and she was... she was just so confused and lost in her own emotions it was becoming uncomfortable.

"He better stay out of my way," he warned.

"Will do chief," she mocked hanging up the phone on him without so much as a 'bye.'

* * *

They entered the empty flat causing Jen to assume Sherlock was out on a case of some sort. She couldn't care less. Peter looked around and observed a few of the paintings that Jen had done over the years. He observed each piece of furniture carefully as if he was inspecting for termites.

"All of the furniture is his except for the piano. Where are your things?" he asked circling the flat again trying to find something he missed. It was cozy but not familiar making him just slightly uncomfortable. He hated new places; it took him long enough to get used to Rampton, and now, there was Holmes's flat. He twitched at the reminder that this was his flat and not Jen's; the proof was in the furniture.

"Downstairs in Damon and Myra's flat," she told him simply as she removed her gloves and then her jacket before placing it on the hook. She noted that Sherlock's jacket was in fact gone confirming the possibility that he was on a case. "You'll be sleeping upstairs in my room while you're here."

"And you?" he repeated Sherlock's concern.

"Don't worry about it," she smiled at him. "I don't sleep much. I'll just take the couch."

"You don't have to," Peter told her, but he knew she wouldn't take no for an answer. He might as well put the show of effort in if he was going to have to convince her that he was still the brother who loved her even if he wasn't the boy he was when he was arrested. He had changed as much as she had changed. She was an angel now, and he, he was making deals with the devil when before he only played with demons.

"Its fine," she replied as he slid the skull off of the mantel. He stared down at it with a lack of interest despite knowing that it was a real skull and not some prop.

"Hands off the skull," a voice said making him and Jen both look up. Sherlock walked into the room pausing at the doorway to stare at Peter. She had hoped John would be with him, but he likely went back home to the lovely Mary. She didn't blame him; she would rather be with the lovely Mary and not playing referee with the two psychopaths if necessary. Lord have mercy.

"Why?" Peter asked being a brat making a big show of rubbing his hands all over the skull making Sherlock twitch ever so slightly in annoyance. Jen tisked him before taking it from his hands and placing it back on the mantle in its place. "Someone you kill, Mr. Holmes?" Peter asked as Sherlock began to remove his coat. He paused and gave Peter a distasteful look.

"With the number you've racked up, it's likely someone you killed," he sneered making Peter smile at him pleasantly ready to play any little game he wanted only to end up dancing circles around him. He loved dancing circles around the clever ones; they always gave the most pleasant reaction.

"Shame I couldn't finish you off," Peter sighed sounding truly regretful.

"Peter, Sherlock-" Jen stopped fully comprehending what Peter said. Him and Sherlock... had history? That wasn't possible; it couldn't be. She would have known. "You what?" she asked him.

"Oh, he didn't tell you?" Peter asked her still smiling as if amused by the lack of transparency between them. "Perhaps he feared you would be angry with him; I would be angry with him.."

"She simply didn't ask," Sherlock informed him. "And nor did you tell her." Peter shrugged.

"I was waiting for the opportune moment," he replied.

"Didn't ask what?" she snapped looking between the two tired of being left out of this conversation and lacking the knowledge to fill in the holes. "What did neither of you tell me?"

"Mr. Holmes was the one that eventually figured me out, Jenma, so I had to put him in his place," Peter told her regretting nothing but simply recalling what happened that night. It was a fluke really; he had gotten arrogant. "He was nothing more than bait though. I was arrested during my work with him. Do you still have scars?"

"Why didn't you ever tell me? You knew the Carver was my brother," Jen said looking to Sherlock who rested himself into his chair. She shook her head. "Why didn't you go to the trial or the hearing?"

"I didn't think it was important," he informed her, "nor interesting." Peter looked at him with disgust at someone finding him and his work uninteresting. He should basking in praises from Holmes, yet he deemed him unimportant and boring. How The Carver regretted not being to finish him.

"Important," Peter sneered wanting to mock his lack of interest. "How stupid can you be?"

"Peter, that is enough," she warned him. "Mind your manners or so help me."

"Sorry, Jenma," he mumbled. "Dinner?" he questioned. He was offering to make her dinner as he often did when they were young. He knew how to cook; she didn't. If someone in the house didn't learn how to cook, they would have wasted away.

"Yes," she said with a nod. He gave her a smile before going to the kitchen. Her eyes widen recalling what she had found in the fridge this morning. "Peter, don't open the-" He had already opened it and was now looking at the severed shin with rubber bands around both ends with utter fascination. Not exactly a good image for a former serial killer.

"Studying the lax of muscle after death?" he questioned.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, "put it back." Peter did as he asked before shuffling through the contents of the fridge as if it was the most normal thing in the world to find a severed leg in one's fridge.

"You have nothing to eat," he informed her. Jen hopped up next to him and smiled.

"I don't cook," she reminded him. He grabbed Jen with a wicked smile, and she screamed out as he spun her around in a circle. Sherlock jumped up ready to kill Peter if he had to but was met with the sight of Jen grinning, and Peter crashing to the floor still holding onto her. Sherlock moodily threw himself back in his chair. Oh sure, he tries to do something nice, and she sticks her nose up but throw a serial killer at her and she's smiling like a child.

"You ass," she teased hitting him in the chest. He laughed as she stood up. "I'll buy groceries tomorrow. Want some toast?"

"Toast. Exactly what an ex-criminal wants as soon as he comes out of prison," he told her dryly making her give him a face. He laughed in the way that only she could get him to. He had missed his freedom, but more importantly, he had missed his sister. She was the only thing he cared about even now. Yet, he yearned for the past in the way that she wished to forget it. "Takeout then?"

"Chinese?" he asked having hadn't had crap food in years and rather missed the whole feeling of shame it managed to leave you feeling. There was something satisfying in the feeling.

"Yeah," she nodded holding a hand out to him. He pulled himself up with little help from her, and they slowly began walking toward the sitting room.

"Sure," he said with a shrug.

"Great," she smiled before looking at Sherlock and then Peter. She seemed worried about the prospect of leaving two mentally damaged individuals alone in a room together especially when she had no doubt that they wanted to strangle each other. "Can I leave you two alone in the room together?"

"I think we'll manage," Peter told her with a pleasant smile. She was hesitant, but she grabbed her coat leaving the sociopath and the psychopath alone. Peter sat himself across from Sherlock and gave him a pleasant smile.

"Don't think you can fool everybody with that little stunt on the television," Sherlock told him having watched the coverage with great care. He found himself unhappy with the pained look Jen had on her face as the press heckled her.

"Oh, I know it'll take more than that to reassure people," he answered not bothering to lie to Sherlock. He knew there would be no point in that. "My sister will be the one who needs the most convincing. She doesn't trust me."

"She always was a sharp woman," Sherlock commented staring at Peter and found he shared the same irritating quality Jen had. He couldn't deduce him; it was this that made the Carver's case so thrillingly difficult. He would never have a case quite like that one.

"I want to ruin you, Mr. Holmes," Peter told casually as if he was speaking about the weather, and to him, it was such a casual topic as the weather. "You hurt my sister, and I'm going to watch the life drain out of you."

"You wouldn't be the first to tell me that," Sherlock assured him, "and I doubt you'll be the first to succeed."

"No," he muttered, "I bet Gina told you she would ruin you." He was trying to unhinge Sherlock Holmes. He was having fun with this, and Sherlock enjoyed playing his game even if he shouldn't. Peter was no doubt intelligent, but even more, he was an expert manipulator. He could bend anyone's emotions to his will.

"She proved to have changed her mind," Sherlock replied recalling years ago her reaction to him. It was exceedingly unpleasant at first, but things had changed even with the recent damage to their relationship.

"Changed her mind," Peter uttered as he considered this and all he knew about his sister. He wondered how much Sherlock Holmes really knew. "It was like a flick of the switch, wasn't it? Just for a few minutes, there was something uncharacteristically… sadistic about her, wasn't there? And you lost hold of her personality. It was almost like she was someone else. She was like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde."

"What you suggesting?" Sherlock asked him unsure what Peter was getting at and why. Why had he switched the conversation to Jen so suddenly?

"Didn't think it was odd?" Peter asked confused on how a man so brilliant could be so blind. He was missing the obvious. It was like his sister blindfolded him before she proceeded to spin him in circles and deafen him completely disorienting him. Oh, she was good at that. If his talent was manipulating people's emotions to what he desired, hers was blinding people to see only what she desired.

"Think what was odd?" he questioned getting more suspicious of him as the time went on. Peter's MO was easy enough to follow; manipulate a person to the emotional state he wanted them in.

"That Moriarty targeted everyone you were close to," Peter replied and paused, "except Jen. He knew about you and her, and yet, he didn't threaten her. Don't you think that's odd? He knew you loved her, but he didn't even make an attempt at her. Why?"

"He had other plans for her," Sherlock told him ignoring his little comment on his own feelings toward Jen.

"Yeah, he did," Peter laughed, "but it's not what you think."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock demanded. Did Peter know what Moriarty wanted with her? How could he? There was no connection between the two; he was sure.

"Ask her," Peter told him. "Ask her about the year after she left school, the year she was sixteen. Just ask. You'll be surprised."

"Ask her what?"

"Ask her what happened when she left the school after she killed Connor Waite," he told him with a smile that Sherlock suspected meant there was something dark in his motives. There was always something dark in his actions.

"Why? Do you seek me to see your sister in an unfavorable light?" he questioned curiously believing he understood what he wanted. He wanted him away from his sister; he was possessive over her. "Well, I love to disappoint. I've seen your sister at her worse and believe me when I say I will not turn from her, not again."

"You haven't seen her at her worst," Peter laughed leaning back against the chair. He seemed amused by Sherlock's lack of intelligence on the matter, and it made Holmes tense. He was being belittled by a psychopath; it wasn't a first, but at least Moriarty was elegant about it. He did it for reasons that Sherlock understood; he did it for the game. Peter did it for the vicious motivator of love, love for a sibling. Peter despised Sherlock for hurting his sister; Sherlock despised himself for hurting her. Perhaps he did understand Peter more than he thought. "You've just seen a sliver of what she can be. Tell me, if you knew she was dangerous, if you knew she was a monster, would you run? Cause you should."

"Run? Run to her, never away," he assured him having accepted this inevitable trait about his relationship with Jen.

"You're more loyal than I imagined," Peter mused. He chuckled at the thought that this brilliant man was being blinded by something as idiotic as love. It was cute really in the way a child had a crush on someone they could never have. Holmes could never have her, and Peter would do everything in his power to make sure of that. "Has the machine learned to love?"

"Enough of this," Sherlock snapped tiring of his attempts at manipulation. "You seek to start killing people again; I assure you I will catch."

"How will you catch me when the barrier you'll have to get through is the only creature capable of loving you? Gina will protect me like she always has; she will stand in front of me ready to take any bullet. She'll even shot them at you if it means saving me." Peter had assessed the situation, and he knew he was at an advantage especially with the obvious tension between Sherlock and Jen.

"And you'll let her do that?" Sherlock asked him feeling a bit more anger than he knew he should. He was willing to manipulate one of the few people he claimed to care about and who in turned cared about him to the point where it would destroy her. "You'll just let her tear herself apart trying to find her loyalties while you play games. She's given everything to you, and you throw it back in her face."

"Guess you and I aren't so different," Peter told him coldly making Sherlock go rigid. Perhaps it was true. Jen gave everything a damaged person like her could offer to Sherlock, and he promised not to leave her. Instead of fulfilling that promise, he shattered it into pieces successfully breaking the strong woman he had grown to care for. It was never intentional, but that mattered little. What was done is done; he could not change that. "Gina is the only person I care for. When people hurt her, I get even for her. I'm going to listen to you scream, Mr. Holmes."

"And you think that's what she wants?"

"It's not about what she wants; she doesn't know any better. It's what I want for her," and he was sincere; he truly believed he knew better than her. It was sick really that he felt murder was the only option to help Jen. "You'll just break her over and over and over again, and maybe I can put her back together with glue and tape, but every time I do, another piece goes missing, and she becomes someone else. Jen, the Jen you knew before you faked your death, is nonexistent because there's this little fraction in her that's gone now, and you can never get it back, and it's your fault," Peter told him emphasizing each word. Sherlock and Peter stared at each other trying to size the other up when the door swung open, and Jen arrived with food successfully breaking the tension momentarily.

"Getting along?" she asked though she already knew the answer. The look they were giving each other was enough to tell a thousand words. Perhaps it was a bad idea to leave them alone together; in fact, she was an idiot for leaving them alone. Though, on the bright side, she didn't come back to a blood bath, so there was that.

"Wonderfully," Peter said as he stood to get some forks from the kitchen. Jen frowned at him as he handed her a fork before she looked to Sherlock, who looked to have delved into his mind palace. She wouldn't be having that. She approached him and nudged him with her foot. He didn't respond, so she kicked him harder.

"Ow! What!?" he snapped looking up and realizing he just snapped at Jen.

"Here," she said holding out a quart with Chinese food in it. "You need to eat something." He looked at the quart with a rather distasteful look making Jen scowl. "Take it, and eat it, or being held down and force fed, your choice."

"Are you going to eat?" he asked watching her answer carefully for any hint of a lie.

"Yes," she replied before holding out the quart again. He took it and the fork from her before she turned and sat on the couch next to Peter. She propped her feet up in his lap as they turned on the telly to watch something mindless.

"So how did you do it?" Peter asked casually poking at his food not speaking to Jen but Sherlock, who sat in silence away from them. "How did you fake your own death successfully breaking my sister?"

"I imagine his own ego broke his fall," Jen muttered making Sherlock scoff and not answering Peter's question. That particular answer would be saved for someone at least worthy of it. "Though I do wonder, how did you manage the part where I identified the body?"

"I was drugged," he told her.

"Makes sense. I was suspicious at first," she admitted, "but after…" She shook her head and fell silent not wanting to remember what happened after. It was something she wanted to push to the back of her mind.

The telly was kept on until in the early hours of the morning, Peter went to bed turning off the television leaving Jen to lay on the couch staring at the ceiling. Her eyes glanced to Sherlock, who in turn glanced to her. She looked back to the ceiling trying to ignore him. This was going to be a long night.

* * *

A/N: Your writer has been having killer migraines and currently wants to check her brain out. If you've never had a migraine, be fucking grateful. I suffer frequent migraines, and I'm about ready to curl in a ball ready to never leave my house ever again. Fuck everything. And sorry about the last chapters and all the mistakes, I did a bit of editing on that today. No guarantees of perfection as you know I'm pretty sure thinking is nearly impossible, and I'll be left as an invalid the rest of my days.

On the other hand, holy jesus, that season finale. This changes everything for me. Everything. That is all.

Well enough about my mood, hope you enjoyed the addition to 221B. Writing psychopaths are hard. Thanks to reviewers: smilin steph, knetterzak, .okumura, Sonic-cast, and hannahhobnob. Going to go sacrifice whores to a volcano to get my brain back. Review please. I'll see you all Saturday nightish.


	5. Heartbroken

Jen continued staring at the ceiling fiddling with her thumbs. She should have been sleeping or trying, but she had too much on her mind, mainly Sherlock Holmes. He had been silently observing her since she had gotten back from the restaurant giving her only a clue to what had gone on when she was out; she wasn't even sure if he knew that she knew he was watching her. She worried what Peter had said to cause his quiet as Peter was dangerous and had the unique ability of convincing anyone of anything he so desired. Though convincing Sherlock of anything without concrete evidence was exceedingly difficult, which just worried her even more. What evidence had Peter given the detective.

"What did he say to you?" she asked as she stood to throw out any trash from dinner as well as shoving any food in the fridge away from the leg. She had to keep herself busy as her mind wheeled from having her brother around even if that meant doing the despicable, tedious task of household chores.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked her snapping out of his thoughts about Peter and Jen. He was trying to piece an impossible web together; he could do this if he had the time and resources. What was Peter trying to do? What was he trying to convince him of? He had a motive, and perhaps a side motive of his was to rid Jen of Sherlock Holmes, but he had a bigger motive, one that was out of reach thus far. Sherlock needed to know what it was.

"What did Peter say to you?" she repeated her question seeking to know what the man's mind was on.

"He just told me he wanted to ruin me," he said casually as if saying 'today is Monday.' Perhaps it was so simple; he had death threats practically daily from various enemies, and Peter was no different. No one had succeeded yet; the closest was Moriarty, and even then, it seemed he wasn't as close as Jen thought.

"Oh," she said with a frown. It didn't surprise her, but it still upset her. Her brother needed to control himself, but she was no fool. Peter had a desire to cause havoc, and nothing would change that especially when he had the temptation of a mind like Holmes's to play with. That thought alone was enough to make her nauseous convinced that him being out was largely due to her influence at the hearing.

"He told me if it came down to it, your loyalty would go to him, and you'd be okay with shooting me if I got in the way," he informed her. She paused thinking that concept over. If she had to choose between the two of them, who would she pick? Well, blood against water, it was an easy choice, wasn't it? At least, it seemed like an easy choice.

"Wouldn't miss the chance to shoot you," she muttered half joking, but there was a part of her that really wouldn't mind shooting him, perhaps not killing him, but injuring him? Oh, she could enjoy that. The flat fell silent again as Sherlock seemed to consider whether she was kidding or not. He decided to push that aside as he focused on a question he didn't want to ask as the psychopath upstairs was the one to advise him to ask it. To ask was playing right into his game.

"What happened the year you were sixteen?" Sherlock asked her deciding to play Peter's game confident in his ability to win no matter what the game plan was. "After you killed Connor, where did you go?" She paused as she cleaned the dishes that had been building in the sink. Her mind searched for that answer but knew that she would find none.

"What do you mean where did I go?" she asked trying to find an easy way out. "I went home."

"No, you didn't," he told her. She should have known an easy answer would not do for Sherlock. "No one knew where you were for another year. What happened?" She paused with a frown. What was she supposed to tell him? She grasped for the memories, but they slid like putty through her hands. What was she going to tell him when she didn't have anything to tell? The truth, she supposed.

"I don't know," she said as she stacked more dishes into the dishwasher trying to avoid looking at him.

"Don't lie, Ginny," Sherlock told her sounding bored with the idea. "It doesn't suit you."

"No, I mean, I don't know… I don't remember," she told him with a sigh. "Most of that year… is black. I remember killing Connor, but I don't even remember leaving the school. I was back home a year later." It should have bothered her that she had these moments of darkness, and yet, she was grateful for them as they had blanked out most of the horrors she had witnessed. Ignorance was bliss, and she was the perfect example of that.

"Blackouts? Do you have those often?" he asked her. His face was passive even as he scrambled to find answers to these blackouts. Was there ever a time she had blackouts recently? If so, when? She never showed signs before, or had she and he hadn't caught them?

"Um… yeah," she replied attempting to recall the moments of her life that she had rather large blank patches in her memory, "but uh… that year was the worst, and then um… while I worked with Shadow, and uh… they occur on and off."

"Have you seen someone about it?" he asked standing and approaching the counter she stood in front of. She shook her head. "Why?" She shrugged. Oh, she knew why they were there. They were repressive memories; they were things she chose not to know. Somewhere in her subconscious laid her most grotesque, most horrific memories, and there they would remain as far as she was concerned. She didn't need to carry anymore horrors around with her.

"I worry what they'll tell me," she told him, and really, it was only a half lie. "I mean… the blackouts have gotten better, so I think I'll be okay."

"Go see a doctor about it," Sherlock ordered her leaning over her in a rather imposing manner. When he wanted to be, Sherlock Holmes could be just as manipulative as her brother, but at least his manipulation skills were generally for the common good.

"Why?" she asked turning to him. It was really unfair how much taller he was than her. It made her feel slightly intimidated when he loomed over her like he currently was. She straightened her back to erect herself to full height; it didn't really do much.

"Blackouts could be caused by a number of ailments," he informed her ready to tick them off his fingers. "Tumors, narcolepsy, epilepsy, some forms of cancer, heart attack, central nervous system diseases, irregular heartbeat, stroke, multiple sclerosis-"

"Sherlock, I'm fine," she told him cutting him off not wanting to go into this with him. She had more important things to deal with and so did he such as the psychopath sleeping upstairs.

"You aren't a medical doctor; you don't know that," he replied, and she searched his face trying to understand why he was insisting she go see someone about a problem she's had since she was fifteen. She found nothing as he seemed to be doing quite a good job at keeping his face passive.

"Why does it matter?" she asked. He paused and looked down to her trying to search for an answer that didn't seem sentimental; he failed.

"I imagine life would become all the more unbearable if you were to succumb," he mused trying to reply coldly and failing as Jen seemed to catch the sincerity and warmth he attempted to push down. She looked at him surprised with this confession and slightly confused.

"You managed fine after you faked your death," she said harshly turning away from him to finish the dishes. She was still mad about that? He didn't understand the effect it had on her; he didn't understand how she could still be mad. He was alive and kicking, and she seemed to rather have him dead and six feet under. What sort of logic was that? It didn't make any sense to him. Surly, they were over this.

"I didn't want to, Ginny," he told her still struggling to find the logic in her behavior, "but I would rather hurt you than kill you." Jen stared at him through wide eyes trying to understand him and why he didn't understand. Perhaps the initial play out of his plan didn't hurt him, but coming back and realizing his friends were angry, were upset, were disappointed stung him. How could he not understand that that was going to hurt those closest to him? They loved him, and he essentially died. God, how was this man even human? How could she have loved him, and why did the prospect of that love fading as the days went by leave her feeling emptier than she has been?

"How sad for you to have to feel pain," she snapped at him not ready to cave into any of his little attempts to get her sympathy. She wanted him to hurt; she wanted him to feel what she felt even if it was impossible. "You know what I feel? You know what I have felt since your supposed suicide?"

"Sadness I imagine," he said thoughtfully and carelessly. He didn't seem to care if she was sad, and , even if he did, she couldn't see it angering her more. She wanted to watch him shatter under the guilt; she just wanted him to understand. What do you say to a machine for them to understand heartbreak?

"No, nothing," she snapped throwing her dish in the sink likely shattering it. She faced him clearly angry. "People confuse depression for sadness. They say just cheer up, Jen. Be happy, but depression isn't sadness. Depression is nothing; depression is sitting there not wanting to do anything. It's sitting at the bottom of the deepest well and seeing the light knowing if you just tried you could get out but not bothering to because there is no point. Every time someone told me to be happy I wanted to shoot them in their God damn head. Telling a depressed person to be happy is like someone saying my dog is dead and being replied with its okay, we'll find it. So if you feel unhappy, ashamed, pain, then consider yourself lucky, because you have more than I do. You took that from me, and I hate you for it." Her words hit like a knife. She had been angry before, and perhaps she had even told him she hated him before, but it wasn't like this. None of it was like this; she said it so precisely and so harshly that he realized what he lost by deceiving her.

"I'm sorry, Ginny," he uttered to her meaning his apology more than he had any other time he had apologized. He watched as tears slowly started trickling down her face putting another sharpened knife in him.

"Is it really so hard to love me?" she asked him through tears. She wasn't exactly stable; she had yet to address everything she had been feeling since his revival. As much as he hated to see her this way, he knew this was perhaps a sign of her working through her depression. "You told me you would stay; you promised, and you left, and I was just stupid enough to believe you. I thought you cared about me even just little."

"I had no choice," he assured her. "Believe me I wanted to stay, but there was no other way." She kept crying, but it wasn't in anger with him anymore; it was a sort of confusion and anger she felt for herself. "Stop it. Stop crying; it doesn't suit you. It sort of… distorts your face," he told her causing her to nearly laugh, but it was caught in a sob causing her to choke on her laugh.

"I don't know if… I don't know if I can trust you anymore," she told him quickly wiping the tears away and trying to keep a hold of her pride while she still could. "I just don't, and I'm sorry, but… I can't change that."

"I know, and I'm not asking for that. It would be unrealistic," he replied recognizing that this would take more time despite finding it to be illogical and just plain, well, stupid. "I'm asking you to stop being hindered by the things I did. It's not fair to you, and it has really become inconvenient to my routine as well." She paused to consider what he was asking. He was essentially asking her to move on, and let go of the past between them. She could do that, couldn't she? She thought she already had until he came back in her life and shattered that illusion.

"I think… I can try," she told him finally drying off her hands wanting to go to bed. She was exhausted from all this conversation, and all the emotions she was experiencing.

"Will you forgive me?" he asked her. She paused to look at him square in the eyes; her eyes darted back and forth trying to see something that was invisible to the naked eye. She wanted regret and guilt, and she saw nothing of the sort.

"No," she replied simply. "I'm sorry but no." He nodded slowly having no choice but to accept this decision. He could not force her to forgive him as much as he wanted to. "I'm going to um… couch," she gesture making her way toward the sitting room, but Sherlock wrapped his arm around her small arm. Thankfully, she was starting to gain a little of her weight back already. He rolled his eyes at his yet to be spoken offer. Sentiment was really starting to get the better of him.

"Take my room," he told her.

"Oh no, I couldn't," she shook her head looking up at him.

"This is what people do isn't it?" he asked her not looking her in the eyes. He was looking anywhere but; he felt completely awkward not used to doing such humanizing acts. "Do nice things to make up for the wrongs?"

"I suppose," she replied seeing the logic in this.

"Then take my bed," he told her, but it sounded more like a rough order. "If you fall asleep on the couch, I will be forced to be in the humiliating situation of carrying you there when you doze off."

"Okay," she said in a small voice before turning around to his room. She paused for a moment; she wanted one more crack at him. She wanted him to feel the heartbreak she felt; oh, it was cruel, but... he had been cruel first: an eye for an eye. Would he even feel it? "Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you," she started off still deciding what she wanted to say if she wanted to say it. "Despite being unable to accept your words of apology… they do not on deaf ears. I hear you loud and clear, but I need you to understand. I really meant everything I said when you died. I loved you, and I wasn't running on emotion when I wrote that damn article, and I didn't mean I loved you like a brother. You were only one of two men who I've ever loved to that extent, and I had to kill the first one… I thought that your death was my fault. People around me who I love just seem to die; I felt cursed and worthless."

"But I'm not dead," he reminded her still trying to find her train of thought. She wasn't a stupid woman; there had to be a reason for all this hate and anger toward him.

"No, but," she paused considering her words; she wanted to make an impact on him, but it wasn't working, "what I felt is. I moved on; I don't love you anymore, and I never will… not again… not like that," she told him, and the silence became heavy as the full impact of her words shattered and buried deep into him tearing him apart as if it was shards of glass tearing across his every fiber. Dear lord, why did this hurt so bad? Why was he in so much pain? He had suffered no external wound, and yet, it hurt like one, and it didn't dull as she left the room to continue on to his room thinking she had failed in her attempts to show him what she felt when in fact she did not. He stumbled into the sitting room feeling like he was suffocating and every part of his hurt. He quickly checked for external wounds and signs of poison, heart attack, stroke, anything. He needed to see a doctor now.

* * *

"Your temperature is fine," John sighed looking at the thermometer rather tired as he had been awoken at three in the morning by Sherlock banging on the door shouting about being hurt. He had likely awoken his neighbors as well.

"Then what is wrong with me?" he hissed. "I hurt all over especially in the abdomen and chest, and I had a very difficult time breathing in the flat. I feel fatigued like I've had the flu for months." It had dulled down, yet, and it still burned like a fresh wound.

"What brought it about?" Mary asked with a yawn sitting at the table with a cup of tea. She could have slept through Sherlock's visit, but something told her this would need her expertise as well as her fiance's.

"I don't know," Sherlock snapped not understanding why these people couldn't help or why he couldn't find details that may lead to what had caused the pain he was experiencing, "I was just talking to Ginny, and after we were done talking, she left to my room, and it just hit me."

"What were you talking about?" Mary frowned thinking her instinct to be right. Sherlock didn't think he could be impacted by words and emotions; he was so very wrong. He was still human.

"She was telling me that she moved on, and that she…," he felt the familiar difficulty with his breathing as his head swam, and it felt like someone punch him in the gut. "Some nonsense about never loving me again, then stalked off to her room. She was being emotional." John and Mary shared a look before Mary put a hand on his pitying him.

"You poor man, you really don't know," she mused.

"Know what!?"

"Sherlock," Mary whispered, "you're experiencing what Jen felt when she thought you were dead. That was likely the point."

"The point?" Sherlock frowned not comprehending what the hell she was talking about. Had Jen poisoned him in revenge? "What are you talking about!? John! What the hell is she saying?" John sighed and looked to Mary, who nodded as if to say 'well, tell him.' John nodded in return knowing it was really the only way to go about this problem.

"There's nothing physically wrong with you, Sherlock," John told him. "You're heartbroken." He gave a disbelieving scoff at the analysis. That was impossible; there was no way he, _the_ Sherlock Holmes, was heartbroken especially not over Jen. It was a childish and stupid thought, and clearly John knew nothing about him if he thought this was the case.

"In order to be heartbroken, I would have had to love her," he replied shaking his hand from Mary, "and I didn't. Ginny's a friend, and that is it. Love is a disadvantage I will not fall for."

"It doesn't matter if it's a disadvantage," Mary chuckled slightly amused by his lack of understanding; he was one of the most brilliant men in the world, and yet, he didn't understand love nor anything related to it that wasn't' chemical or biological, "sometimes it just happens no matter how hard you fight against it."

"You really think you don't love her?" John asked not believing, after everything, what he was hearing. Surely by now he knew what was so obvious for everyone else to see. "Sherlock, nothing was more important to you than your reputation as a detective, but you threw that aside on a whim just at chance to find out why Moriarty wanted her, just at a chance to keep her safe."

"We… I have a debt I need to repay," he tried to argue, but John shook his head.

"No," John told him. "You know that debt has been erased ages ago. You did this because you wanted to protect her, and if that's not enough proof, I can pull up hundreds of examples. Near the end there, you two were a couple despite your denial. For the love of God, I found you two sleeping on the floor together more than once."

"Involuntary reaction during REM sleep," he defended.

"Alright, fine. The opera?"

"I owed her an opera. She missed it because of me," he answered quickly.

"Baskerville?" Mary offered having read and heard all about the two.

"I was drugged," he explained away.

"Mycrofts?"

"I was drunk," he informed him.

"Ah, ah, no, no not at first. You were trying to make her feel better. You weren't drunk; you weren't drugged; you were just concerned. You went out of your way to make her feel better." Sherlock searched for an excuse but could find none making him frustrated.

"Oh, this ridiculous!" Sherlock shouted standing not willing to admit what was obviously the truth even with the facts right in front of him. "I'm not in love with her! I can't be!"

"Why?" John challenged willing to push Sherlock into admission if he had to. It would be a difficult feat to convince him what he was feeling was heartbreak, but if they could, it was a huge step toward the right direction. "Jen's clever; she's smart; she's interesting and fun; she keeps you on your toes; she loves you, and that's a hell of an accomplishment; and she's a hell of a woman."

"Take it easy, John," Mary muttered just a little jealous.

"Sorry," he smiled at her before turning back to the conversation at hand. "Why is it impossible for you to see what everyone else knows? You're in love with her."

"I can't be!" he shouted pacing angry with the conclusion that was proving more and more right the more he filtered through his mind palace to find evidence that proved otherwise. It was in that moment he realized that he hadn't deleted a single piece of information about Jen even the most useless, obscure pieces of data like the fact that she hates the color orange or the fact that she thought that small talk was the instrument of the devil or the way she scrunched her nose when she found something particularly amusing.

"Why?!" John demanded wanting to know why his best friend was so reluctant to admit to his one saving grace.

"Because my mind can't handle it!" he shouted unable to find any other words.

"What?" John asked confused. Sherlock finally calmed down and leaned into a one of the kitchen chairs breathing deeply as he tried to reel in his emotions. Was it true? Did he love Ginevra Lorraine, and he had been blind to that fact?

"If she dies for whatever reason, and I love her, I will never be able to use my mind again," he said able to live that moment in his mind so easily. He could see the disaster he would become. "My mind palace will crumble; my cognitive process will start to fail as if I'd become blind, and the idea of losing my job, the one thing that brings joy, would be taken away by love," he spat. He recalled when Enola died, and it stabbed him slightly. It had dulled down over the years, but deep in his mind palace there were rooms upon rooms left in ruin because of her death. He couldn't let anymore of the palace crumble under emotion. "It was nearly this way when I lost Enola."

"Doesn't matter if you accept it," Mary told him. "If she dies and you don't accept it, you'll still face the same consequences." He slowly looked up at her still breathing rather hard. He pushed off the chair and rubbed his eyes exhausted.

"So… what I do? How do I make this 'heartbreak' go away?" he asked in an almost mocking manner not quite ready to concede but ready to try anything to stop this psychosomatic pain.

"Nothing," Mary told him. "Sherlock, look at Jen. You broke her heart, and she still hasn't healed. What you're feeling is what she felt. But, if Jen loves you the way I think she does, she won't be able to help but fall in love again."

"She told me never again," he said letting guilt sink in. So, this is what caused her actions, this feeling? This is what caused her to act irrationally; it didn't seem irrational anymore, and he felt a heavy weight fall on his shoulders realizing what he had done.

"Well, she lied," Mary laughed causing him to glance at her with some sort of spark of hope. "She'll try to stray away, no doubt about that, but she'll fail."

"She's moved-on; she has… Mark," he hissed. Jealousy? Was this jealousy? Oh fucking hell, he realized, he was in love with her... No, no, no, he wasn't in love with her. This was jealousy, yes, but he was jealous that he took up Jen's time when he hadn't seen her for two years. That's all it was; this was backlash from being gone for so long.

"Mark is just convenient; she saw him a lot when she was visiting Lucy," Mary replied. "I like Mark, but… their relationship won't last especially not with you in the picture. Let the relationship run its course; give it time."

"And in the meantime?" he asked wanting the relationship run its course at his command.

"Just be Sherlock Holmes," John laughed. "She loves you. God only know why, but hell, she's perfect for you." John paused to consider that and then amended his statement. "Actually, I think she's a bit out of your league, but who am I to judge?"

"Right," he muttered slowly heading toward the door to go home. There was nothing he could do but dwell on these thoughts. God, it was going to agonizing.

"Sherlock," Mary called stopping him.

"Hm?"

"She hasn't moved on; she's just waiting for you," Mary smiled before he nodded and started toward the door before he paused realizing that no one could ever know he came to them because he supposedly had his heart broken.

"Don't mention this to anyone," he ordered them.

"Of course not," the couple chimed together before they watched him leave.

"That poor man," Mary sighed after hearing the door slam.

"You have no idea," John replied cleaning up the tea. "I had to spend over a year with the two looking at each other longingly behind each other's back as the sexual tension became so unbearable I needed air." Mary laughed.

"Well, at least, we know he's human now," Mary grinned.

"Barely," John muttered earning another laugh from his fiancé.

* * *

A/N: I'm still trying to decide if it was believable enough... hm. Well, anyway, a necessary bitchy move on Jen's part; hey, you can't go anywhere if Sherlock refuses to acknowledge that he potentially loves her.

You were all marvelously supportive of me bitching about my migraines. I was being needy in my time of agonizing pain, so thank you for humoring me.

Thanks to reviewers: knetterzak, Liberty Blake, zare. downey .okumura (for some reason it won't let me type out your username properly) , swanrage, hannahhobnob, and TragicBlossoms. See you Wednesday night. Review please!


	6. Common Ground

"Where did you go last night?" Peter asked absently sitting in Sherlock's chair much to his annoyance, and Peter, of course, did it purposely to annoy him. It was the little things that really made their little game worth playing. Jen was ignoring them both as she seemed to be looking at the paper again. What was she always doing with the paper these days? Part of her wasn't even reading the paper; she was just pretending to read to it to avoid having to be part of their little spats.

"That isn't your business," Sherlock informed him too tired to play his wretched games; what exactly his games were were just out of Sherlock's grasp making him more edgy than usual, and after last night, Sherlock's body was drained. He hated the feeling especially with his mind feeling just as sluggish. This was the problem with love, and it drove him mad knowing that no one else could see this hindrance.

"Really?" Peter asked with a mischievous smile. He had been eavesdropping the night before; that was no surprise. Any little piece of information to use against Holmes was worth the effort in gathering it. "Because I distinctively heard yelling and crying. Then you left as soon as Gina went to bed. What were you arguing about?"

"Mind your own business," Sherlock snapped at him. Dear lord, how long was expected to stay in the same flat as this child? He was purposely trying to scramble his mind, and with everything going on around him, Peter's game was more of an annoyance than anything.

"What goes on in my sister's life is my business?" Peter told him with a provoking smile. He was just dying to wrap his hands around Holmes's throat; he was begging for it. He would get the opportunity; Peter would make sure of that.

"Peter, don't get on his nerves. It makes life harder than it already has to be," Jen told him deciding their little argument had gone on long enough. Before anymore could be said, the sound of feet running up the stairs echoed on the stairway bouncing into the room. Jen glanced up to the girl, who came bounding in followed by her father.

"Ginny, look what dad got me!" Lucy exclaimed showing her a stuffed bear. Jen gave her a gentle smile as she stood to go closer to her.

"Aren't you a little old for those?" Peter asked her bitterly. He was just so thrilled to have more people interrupting him with their idiotic thoughts.

"Oh, shut up, Peter. You're just jealous because we never got toys as children," she said rolling her eyes as she leaned down to look at the bear and Lucy properly. "I always wanted one those Victorian dolls' houses when I was a child," she smiled sadly at the bear. "Never had much of a childhood. What's the occasion?" she asked standing up straight once again as Mark stepped into the flat.

"I got a promotion," he told her happily.

"Oh," she said happily throwing her arms around him and giving him a kiss making both Peter and Sherlock grimace in disgust. At least, they agreed on something. "Congratulations."

"I have something for you as well," he said fishing a black velvet case out of his pocket. She resisted the urge to cringe hating receiving jewelry ever since she was young. She couldn't really say why she did exactly; she just did.

"You didn't have to," she told him trying to be police as she took the jewelry box from him and opened it. Inside was a sapphire crystal bracelet. "It's beautiful," she said with a smile kissing Mark again.

"You hate jewelry. You thinks it's an overrated superficial mark of society's materialism," Sherlock happily reminded causing Mark's face to fall. He knew far too much about her and just wouldn't keep his mouth shut. How could he help tearing little holes into the fabric of a relationship he didn't think should exist.

"You especially hate bracelets," Peter added on happily watching this man squirm under their scrutiny. Yes, he hated Holmes, but he would gladly team up with him to destroy the man currently having sex with his sister. "You find them to be a hindrance, and you despise bracelets as they touch a rather venerable part of your body: the wrist."

"Rightfully so," Sherlock concluded adding on to Peter's analysis. "I once had to deal with a case that involved a woman slashing her own wrists with a bracelet. Quite by accident of course."

"Will you two shut up?!" Jen snapped at them forcing them both to fall silent or else risk being subjected to her anger. They were getting on her last nerve, and she wasn't stupid. She knew what they were trying to do; it was no surprise. "Dear lord, they've been driving me insane. By the end of this all, I'm going to be the psychopath."

"Um… Sherlock and I have met but…?" he glanced at Peter, who waved mockingly at him. Mark cringed slightly knowing that there was something completely off about him. He was handsome enough with an amiable face, but there was something dead in his eyes, something completely without remorse.

"My younger brother Peter," she offered with a half wave toward him. He seemed less than pleased at the poor introduction. "He's on parole."

"Oh, I've heard a lot about you," Mark told him glancing at Jen slightly confused, which she didn't respond to, before offering a hand as he took several steps toward Peter. He had heard nothing about Peter, in truth, and was just being polite. Jen had been quite quiet about her abnormal family seeking not to scare him away; in fact, Mark thought she was an only child even an orphan when she bluntly said she had no parents.

"Really? I've heard nothing about you," Peter said dully staring at his hands making no effort to be friendly. Why should he be cordial? This man was of no interest to him. "Let me take a guess though. You met Gina not long before the fall, and you found her stunning when you first met her. After all, who wouldn't? Gina's not particularly attractive, but she has an air that draws anyone with mild intelligence in. When Sherlock faked his death, you stepped in and comforted her as mean to get her in her bed. Surprise, surprise. A low move but not an opportunity you would want to miss; this may have been the only chance you would have. My sister, being the person she is, accepted your advances with little enthusiasm except perhaps for the first night since she hadn't had sex in years. Gina has spurred all further advance in your relationship as she doesn't really like you that much. Sound about right?"

"Actually, we're moving in together once her lease is up," Mark ground out trying to be patient with the brother he had heard nothing about. He wasn't even sure if Peter really was her brother; they shared practically no features he could see.

"For now," he remarked coolly.

"Ignore him," Jen told Mark with a sigh. "He's bored having been in a mental institution for too long." Mark glanced at her with a questioning look again wondering where this was all coming from. She just shrugged knowing she'll be answering some questions later.

"What was he doing in there?" Lucy asked looking at Peter curiously.

"I killed people," Peter told her flatly looking at the small girl. "Be careful. You could be next." He half lunged at her making Lucy gasped and hid behind her father as he fell back in his chair.

"Peter!" Jen shouted reprimanding him. "Leave her alone!" He rolled his eyes before he waved her off.

"Do you want to go to dinner and get out of this madhouse?" Mark asked her. He had questions for her, and he thought he deserved answers. Where did this brother come from, and was he really in an institution for killing people? She sighed and shook her head.

"Love to, but I can't leave Peter and Sherlock alone together, and I can't leave them alone separately. Lord knows the chaos I would come back to," she groaned. She could not fathom if the flat would even still be a flat when she came back. She wasn't sure if the occupants would still be alive. There would be hell to pay if she decided to take time for herself.

"Bring them with then. I don't care," Mark rolled his eyes. "I haven't spent time with you since you got back."

"You really want a psychopath and sociopath at dinner with us?" she asked him glancing between Sherlock and Peter.

"Does it mean I get to spend time with you?" he grinned making her smile and shake her head. Sometimes, he was too nice to her; she didn't deserve it.

"Alright, fine," she muttered giving in without much effort; she needed to get out and do something. "You two," she snapped at sociopath and psychopath, "get ready. We're going to dinner."

"Rather not," Sherlock told her.

"Seems dull," Peter finished.

"You two don't have a choice," she told them. "Dinner! Now!" The two scrambled up being quick to put on their jackets and shoes as Mark helped Jen slid her red coat on, and Lucy giggled at Jen's command and their response.

"I love when you do that," Mark whispered to her as kissed her cheek.

"Do you? Maybe I'll start ordering you about then," she teased as she pulled on a set of black gloves as she turned to face him.

"Sounds uh," he muttered pulling her by her belt loop into a kiss.

"Can we go?" Peter asked harshly wanting to break the two apart. He didn't like this Mark.

"Yeah," Jen said happily. The five of them made their way down to the street and decided to walk to the corner café as it wasn't terribly cold outside. Jen was holding Lucy's hand in one of hers; the girl was starting to get too old to have her hand held, but Jen was adamant to keep it up. In her other, she held Mark's. Sherlock and Peter lingered behind them.

"So is he really your brother?" Mark asked her looking quickly behind him at the taller man, who was walking beside Holmes talking to him. "He looks nothing like you."

"He's my half-brother," she answered and then decided to amend her statement, "but never saw him as my half-brother. He's always been my little brother through and through."

"And he... he's really been in an institution for killing people?" Mark asked wondering what he had gotten himself into.

"Rampton. He's the serial killer known as The Carver," she answered simply. There was no other way to answer him; she could not beat around the bush.

"And you never mentioned you had a brother because?" How to explain to him what he couldn't possibly understanding. His family was normal; for God's sake, they had Christmas dinner together. Her family were mental patients and terrorists.

"Actually, I have two brothers: one older, one younger as well as a younger sister, and the reason I didn't tell you is, because my younger brother is a serial killer, my older brother is the sociopathic German government, and my younger sister is a blackmailing dominatrix. If that doesn't tell you why I didn't tell you about my siblings, I'm not sure your as sane as you think you are." She sighed rubbing her forehead; she avoided this topic cutting off any questioning at the beginning of their relationship, and now, it was biting her in the ass.

"And your mother and father?" he questioned now knowing that she was, in fact, not an orphan.

"Anti-personality disorder flake of a whore and schizophrenic alcoholic," she replied.

"And you?" he questioned. He was not an idiot if there was something wrong with them, well, then there was little chance there was nothing wrong with her. He was wondering what else she had avoided telling him..

"Borderline Personality Disorder with an emphasis in psychopathic rage," she answered.

"Oh...," he replied blinking a few times trying to fit the description with Jen but was failing. She was one of the calmest people he knew, and now he was wondering if she was sane enough to remain around his daughter. She laughed ending his worries when he looked down to see her gentle smile.

"I'm medicated," she informed him not bothering to tell him she hadn't taken her medication for several years. It was sitting scattered in her bathroom drawer likely expired.

"Oh," he said more brightly putting his arm around her. She leaned in to him ever so slightly.

"How can you deal with that?" Peter asked distastefully hanging back walking along Sherlock as he eyed the couple distastefully. Peter and Sherlock hated each other; that was obvious, but they had a mutual begrudging respect for each other and a mutual hatred of Mark made this arrangement decently pleasant. "I mean I want nothing more than to see the flesh slip off your bones, but I'd rather you were fucking her than him."

"Your lack of intellectual jargon is so appealing," Sherlock replied bitterly sarcastic rolling his eyes.

"Oh, shut up," Peter snapped. "You know what I mean. I mean look at him," he gestured to Mark. There was nothing wrong with him; he was a rather decent specimen perhaps of average height with blonde hair and a rather decently sculpted face and body. "He's so normal," Peter spat. "Normal people so easy to play with; it's adorable really."

"And if you had it your way-"

"My sister would be devoted to me and completely ignore the idea of relationship. Unfortunately, she is sexual by nature, though, generally she has a weakness for psychopaths. They're the ones who get under her skin. Her fiancé, the one that Irene fucked, he was a paranoid schizophrenic. Undiagnosed, of course, but it was obvious. Of course, she never loved him. Actually, Freud would say she became engaged to him because she missed our father, a paranoid schizophrenic."

"What about Christopher?" Sherlock asked him. There was a blank patch in that particular side of her history; any research he had done on him had been in vein, and any questions he had about him had been snub. She had no desire to talk about the only other man she claimed to have loved. "She doesn't talk about him."

"Chris?" Peter asked searching for the memories of one of the men he admired most. "I liked him; if anyone was worthy of my sister, it was him, a shame really about his death. He was a psychopath; he liked the power he had over my sister, and he liked when she took control, and she fought for power over him. It gave him hard-on."

"You liked him because he was you," Sherlock told him obviously with a slight satisfaction in his assessment. "You have an Oedipeus Complex. Of course, your sister would be the mother in this case since she did practically raise you."

"God, I hate psychology," he growled. "I had to spend years in Rampton with psychologist trying to cram psychoanalyses down my throat, and yes, they did include the possibility of me being incestuously in love with my sister, thanks."

"A sound assessment," Sherlock told him smugly before he nearly slammed the door of the café into his face in annoyance.

"Getting along?" Jen asked the two raising an eyebrow at the two as she waited for them to enter. In retrospect letting them talk, not her best idea.

"Quite surprisingly, except for when the love of your life tried to psychoanalyze me, yes," Peter said with a smile as Mark gave him a look of distaste at him commenting about Sherlock being the love of her life, which Peter replied with a childlike wave.

"Peter, stop it," she reprimanded again making him give her a heavy sigh.

"Ordinary people are so sensitive; it's nauseating," he grumbled.

"Agreed," Sherlock replied.

The arrangement was tricky as Jen didn't want Peter near Lucy or Mark, and frankly, she didn't want him near Sherlock either, but there was no stopping that. So that place Peter between Sherlock and Jen. Jen didn't want Mark near Sherlock or Peter putting him next to her and Lucy between Sherlock and Mark, a place she was happy to be.

The dinner was rather silent besides idle chitchat between herself and Mark as well as Lucy questioning where Sherlock had been since his supposed death. Peter watched them all with distaste that seemed leave his mouth dry with a vile residue left in place of saliva. His sister, his sister who had once accompanied him in his killing spree, was sitting there idly chatting with a normal man, an idiot. It sickened him.

Dinner ended, and Peter hung back watching Jen as she held onto Lucy as if she was her child. The girl grinned up at Jen admirably, and the emotions swelling off her: the love, the admiration, the adoration, made him nauseous. It was all fluff and cotton candy; the small girl hadn't known pain as far as he could tell. By the time he was her age, he had already started killing animals and was regularly planning the death of his classmates. By the time he was her age, his mother had already left, his father had become a boozer, and his elder brother had left them all behind in some false attempt at a better life. By the time he was her age, he was already twisted and deformed and just wanted to hear the world scream his name, not in joy, but in pain, in a plead of mercy that he wouldn't give. He pitied her ignorance as if it was a disease.

"Jenma," the girl sung out making him cringe. When did she get permission to call his sister that? That was reserved for Irene and himself. That name was reserved for family not little leeches that latched on trying suck every emotion out of the woman, little snake. "Will you come to my piano recital?"

"Of course, honey," she cooed bringing the girl closer to her and kissing the top of her head as they continued walking along. Peter felt his hand twitch; this had to end. This peace was sickening; the adoration mocking the woman Peter knew was under that happily little facade she built. They stopped at 221 to depart; she held up a single finger to Mark before she ran over to Sherlock and Peter, who had been walking behind them again. "Can you two last for one night without me?" she asked them.

"Why?" Peter asked her though he could guess why. Jen sighed heavily not wanting to play his mind games.

"If you must know, I would like to go back to Mark's place and have sex. Can I have one night with my boyfriend?" she asked them letting her jaw clench.

"No," Sherlock and Peter said at the same time making her shake her head.

"Excuse me?" she asked with a slight growl.

"You leave I'll kill him, literally," Peter informed her.

"Not if I kill you first," Sherlock replied viciously making the two stare each other down. Jen shook her head putting her hand to her forehead.

"Really? Really? One night is all I'm asking," she sighed looking between the two.

"No," Peter said authoritatively. She rolled her eyes.

"Know what? Go ahead and kill each other," she told them with a raise of her hands in surrender. "I'm going to have a nice night with my boyfriend. Have fun; I will be." She left with Lucy and Mark much to the annoyance of Sherlock and Peter.

"I want to make one thing clear," Peter told Sherlock as he turned to him knowing that tonight wouldn't be the night Sherlock Holmes drew his last breath. "The only reason you're going to survive the night is because currently, you're the only thing standing in the way of Mark and Gina going off and getting married at a fucking courthouse."

"If we're being clear," Sherlock replied mockingly. "I intend to use tonight and whatever happens won't necessarily be on me." He had made that decision as soon as he felt the hole in his chest start to reopen the minute Mark stepped through the door. If he couldn't end their relationship, well, then he could at least block it out or hope to.

"What are we using?" Peter asked him.

"We?" Sherlock asked.

"If you're getting high, so I am I. I'm not being left with vivid images of my sister fucking some idiot."

"You're a serial killer," Sherlock reminded him knowing the lecture he would get from Jen or anyone for that matter if they found out what he and Peter were planning. In retrospect, he sort of didn't mind getting that lecture from her. She didn't control him; he did what he wanted. He wouldn't be controlled by some foolish notion of love. Unaware that, that was exactly what was happening.

"You're close enough," Peter snorted. "What are we using?" he asked again.

"Cocaine. I've been sober for ten years… now seems like a perfect time to dip back in," he replied seeming elated at the idea as well as anxious and upset. Peter rolled his eyes disappointed in the sentiment of it. He was trying to get over Jen by using; how cliché.

"I'm all for it," Peter told him with a grin ready to start the night. If he could kill anyone, using might just take his mind off of it.

* * *

A/N: So this did not come out like I wanted it to. Ugh. Isn't that the worst? I'm just so blah lately. Blah. My mind is very, very hazy right now, so sorry if there are errors on such as after reading this three times, I cannot bear to read again. Thinking about getting a beta reader. I have never used one in my life and have no idea how to go about that, but I'm getting sick of reading a hundred times over especially when I'm not feeling well, but I'm dedicated to get a story out when I say I will. So there's that.

This is also the last of the Wednesday chapters as I have started school again. Updates will be on Saturdays or Sundays, one a week.

Thanks to reviewers: flaming-amber, short-skirtbluescarf, knetterzak, Liberty Blake, Feint Illusion, and hannahhobnob. Review please, and I'll see you all Saturday!


	7. Forgiveness

She felt exhausted as she reached Baker Street. She slammed the cab door earning a scolding from the driver before he drove off in a hurry. She stumbled to the steps before throwing herself down onto the concrete. She fumbled in her pocket for a cigarette and her lighter before finally finding it. She stared at the nearly empty pack with disdain. Last night with Mark did not go well.

It had started off well, really well. The three walked back to the flat him and Lucy stayed in and had sat down to watch a movie on the couch, Lucy had gone to bed after it ended leaving Jen and Mark to have time to themselves. This was apparently a horrible idea as it ended in shouting match involving Jen's inability to tell him anything about her and her past. She didn't blame him for being angry with her, but how could she tell him anything about herself without feeling some sort of judgement? There was a hundred different reactions he could give knowing about her family and her own past, but the one she feared the most was being barred from seeing Lucy again. So, the argument ended with Jen leaving the flat and spending the night walking around London not wishing to go back to Baker Street quite yet.

Jen sighed finishing her cigarette and tossing it to the ground before standing and turning to the door of Baker Street. She pushed the door open and with a heavy sigh, started up the stairs. She made an attempt to open the flat door and found it blocked by something. With an aggravated oomph, she slammed her body into the door causing something to topple over with a loud thump freeing the door. She stepped inside to stare at the bookshelf that was laying on the floor in disarray before her eyes glanced up at the flat.

"What in the hell did you two do?" Jen asked looking at the flat in utter horror. They were like children; they couldn't be alone for one fucking night. The fireplace looked like it had exploded with soot in an explosion pattern around it and even on the walls as books were scattered around it as if they had been used as fuel, a crime if there ever was one. The windows of the flat look like they had been blown out, and it looked like the sink, microwave, and stove of the kitchen had been used in a rather large scale experiment and needed replacing. This was all in addition to the various bullet holes in the wall as well as papers, glass, and the remaining books scattered all over the flat. All the furniture with the exception of the three chairs the trio always sat in and the piano was piled in front of both the door the lead to the hall with Sherlock's room, and the staircase that led to Jen's room. Toby was laying on top of the bookshelf with a shirt on him. Sherlock looked up at her from his tea.

"I was bored," he told her simply as she struggled to get Toby down, who barked at her for help.

"An interesting night it turned out to be," Peter replied as she turned to him after releasing Toby from the people clothes.

"How does this-" she paused getting closer to him before she immediately threw Sherlock out of his chair. "You've been using!" she shouted accusing him and then looked to her brother seeing the familiar signs of cocaine use in him as well. "You've both been using! What the hell is wrong with you two!? You're a recovering serial killer," she pointed at Peter. "You can't be doing things like this Peter! What would have happened if you had been arrested?! What would have happened had you decided to just going around killing people! You're an idiot, and you should know better. When did you even start using cocaine?!"

"Well, your stash wasn't exactly well hidden, Jenma," he mocked clearly making a point to put the blame on her causing her slap him hard across the face feeling there was no other choice.

"You shut it," she demanded, "and you," she said viciously turning to Sherlock, "you are a former addict. You can't go back to that! You can't! Addiction is just a sleeping monster, and you know that better than anyone, and you do this! You are the biggest idiot I have ever met, Sherlock Holmes, and I am so disappointed in you!" She turned to leave but turned around flustered. "I can reprimand Peter, but I am not your mother, Holmes," and then she paused and smiled as she had a terrible, wonderful thought on how to punish Sherlock as this was likely his idea. "I'm telling Mycroft."

"What?!" he panicked standing. If she told Mycroft, he would tell mummy, and he couldn't stand having the same disapproving stare as she did the first time she found out. "You can't!"

"Oh, yes, I am," she sang as she practically skipped out the door with her wonderful idea.

"Ginny!" he shouted, but she was already gone.

* * *

"To what do I owe the pleasure of this unscheduled visit?" Mycroft asked sitting in his chair in the back room of the Diogenes Club. He was uneasy by Jen's visit as it likely meant trouble. She never voluntarily came to him as there was something of a mutual dislike still there even if there was also a mutual begrudging respect.

"I left your brother alone for one night," she told him her jaw clenching in one part annoyance, one part disbelief. "One fucking night, and I come back to the place in complete chaos and find out my brother and yours were high on cocaine." Mycroft paused seeming to take this piece of news in. It wasn't terribly surprising to him that his brother was dabbling in drugs in his time of distress.

"Are you sure?" he asked wanting to be absolutely sure before he took the next step.

"A hundred percent," she told him with a nod before pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration. "I don't know what to do." Mycroft gave her a thin lipped smile; one that told that he had an equally terrible, wonderful thought on how to punish Sherlock.

"I do," Mycroft told her before picking up his cell phone from his desk and dialing a number. "Inspector Lestrade, you may want to lead a drug team to Sherlock's flat. You'll likely find some rather interesting contraband." There was a pause. "Yes, thank you." Mycroft hung up the phone as Jen texted Peter to go down to Damon's flat to avoid the police as it would be a violation of his parole.

"Sometimes you have your uses," she mused getting up and turning to leave wondering if John would be willing to post bail as she was sure she wasn't doing it. He had caused her enough trouble without having to take a huge chunk of money out of her pocket.

"Ginevra," he called out to her making her pause at the door. "I think you also need to consider the possibility that him using after ten years is likely due to everything happening around him including your cold behavior to him. My brother is a sociopath; he has few friends, and losing one would be devastating to him especially you. Do you understand?" Perhaps he had been punished enough; perhaps this was due to her ignoring him, reprimanding him. He did have his entire reputation destroyed and nearly lost everyone he cared for. Perhaps it was time to move passed this.

"Yes," she muttered before she made her way out the Diogenes Club deciding that it was time to let bygones by bygones. She looked at the clock deciding she would go visit Molly, perhaps have a cup of tea with her, and then, when a decent amount of time passed she would go post Sherlock's bail.

* * *

She stood there waiting for him to be released tapping her foot impatiently; he just cost her a pretty penny not that she minded all too much. After all, she was the one who ratted him out to his brother; she regretted nothing. Sherlock came out from the jail looking rather annoyed but seemed to brighten in mood when he saw that she was the one to post the bail and get him out.

"Ginny," he paused in front of her trying to gauge her reaction. Was she here to dish out more punishment, or was she here as some sort of apology? He was betting on the first one. A slight smirk slipped onto her face revealing his prediction to be wrong, and he could not be more grateful until she spoke.

"Did you get raped jail? Are you someone's bitch now? Oh no, you can never live in the normal world again," she mocked as he gave her a rather distasteful look. She grinned at him before looking at the ground and kicking it slightly with her foot as she always did when she painfully guilty of something. "Sherlock, I need you to promise me you'll never do that again." She looked up to him with those lovely wide eyes that could turn a monster to putty in her hands. "I worry for you; I don't… wonder if I came home one day, and you're on the ground dead for one supposedly last hit. I couldn't bare it. So I need you to promise me." Slowly, he nodded willing to make a promise if she in turn made some sort of promise.

"I promise I won't use as long as you are around," he told her. She tilted her head at the phrase. A hundred thinks could happen to her, and she didn't want him falling back to the devil's nectar even if she was drawn away from London either by work or something more permanent like death.

"As long as I am around?" she questioned with a frown not approving of the shoddy promise. "Sherlock... that's not a very good promise."

"Oh, it's a perfectly good promise," he answered quickly not willing to accept her excuses. If he made a promise, he wanted something in return. "All you have to do is stay around London, and I'll stay clean."

"Sherlock," she wined, "wonder if I have to go away for work or I want to visit my family or I die or-"

"Well, that's a simple solution, Ginny," he rolled his eyes. "Stay in the country for work, invite your family, and don't die."

"Sherlock, I am not going to promise to stay in London just to suit you. I like traveling," she told him. He scoffed.

"Overrated, but if you must, I suppose we'll just have to remain in contact or risk me caving to the sleeping monster, as you put it," he replied trying to remain aloof, but she smiled gently at him before looping his arm with hers as they made there way out of the building.

"Hungry?" she asked him knowing the answer.

"No," he said simply looking glancing down at her.

"Me either," she grinned up at him rather enthusiastically. "I was thinking we could grab a cake at the bakery, get a cab to the Diogenes Club, and eat it in front of Mycroft." Sherlock laughed; sometimes how well she knew him shocked him. She knew exactly what to say and do to raise his mood.

"I'd like that, Ginny."

"Good," she smiled, "because you owe be for bailing your ass out."

"I always owe you," he told her as they walked out together. This was good, he realized. This was a new start; they could move passed what had happened, and maybe it took a bit, but he would be able to get back in her good books. It just took the right push.

The two of them made there way down the street toward the bakery with every intention to do as Jen suggested, but Jen's phone chiming in her pocket forced her to stop and answer making Sherlock impatient. He was itching to do something to annoy Mycroft having had him thrown in jail.

"Hello, Mary," Jen smiled. "How are you?" A pause ensued allowing Mary to answer her; Jen nodded and mhmmed several times in agreement before replying. "Of course, why don't you bring John? I have Sherlock with me." There was another short pause and a laugh before she gave Mary a farewell and turned to Sherlock.

"Where are we meeting them?" Sherlock asked her knowing this to be the only outcome of the previous conversation she had been engaged in.

"A cafe just a few blocks from here," she told him slipping her phone back in her pocket. "Come on," she told his arm and led him forward despite resisting.

"Exchanging pleasantries," he answered distastefully wishing he had a case or would even accept being home doing an experiment. Anything would be better than the torture of socializing, then again, he mused looking down at his companion, who was latched onto him in a rather affectionate manner.

"With John and Mary," she reminded him hoping it would change his opinion on socializing. After all, John was his best friend, and he- no surprised to Jen who knew Mary and Sherlock rather well- seemed to take a shine to Mary, something he hadn't done with John's previous girlfriends. He 'mm'ed at her saying nothing more on the topic as they continued to walk together.

"Ah, here we are," Jen said stopping at the cafe and holding the door open for Sherlock. They both stepped in to be greeted immediately by Mary and John already at a table. They both sat down facing the couple.

"This is nice," Mary said pleasantly smiling at Jen surprised and happy to see her out and about with Sherlock. She was secretly hoping that the two would get together and soon. After Sherlock had showed up at their doorstep that night of a broken heart, she had begun plotting getting the two together, and it was a great challenge with some many obstacles in her way including Jen's stubbornness and current boyfriend and Sherlock's refusal to acknowledge his own emotions. "You two make up then?"

"No," Jen replied at the same time Sherlock replied with, "Yes." They stared at each other for a moment in confusion believing that the other understood where they were standing in their relationship. The truth was, however, that no one, not even the two in question, could really tell you were they stood. They were in a hazy gray area.

"I thought I was-" Sherlock started, but she cut him off.

"We're not back to where we were," she reminded him taking a sip of her tea, and honestly, maybe it was a good thing they weren't back to where they were. Their relationship had come to a standstill with everyone waiting for it to finally move forward. Their previous relationship was full of denial and self-sabotage; it could be better.

"But you forgive me," he responded quickly accepting the idea that they weren't back to the way they were but needing her forgiveness even if it killed him.

"Eh," she said giving him a shaky gesture not really ready to forgive him.

"Oh for God's sake," he sneered slamming his hands down on the table. "This has gone on long enough, Ginny. What do I have to do? Do you want me to stand in the street, and you can hit me with your car? Will that be enough compensation?"

"You really don't get it, do you?" she asked believing he really didn't understand what she was feeling when he really did, but the ones to have seen the cause of her retaliation were John and Mary, who sat grimacing at the pair. Jen punched Sherlock's arm as hard as she could. To his credit, he barely winced. "Did that hurt?"

"Yes." She punched him again five times in quick secession.

"Bet that hurt, didn't it? That's what it feels like… inside because of you. I'm working on getting over it." Just to add insult to injury she punched even harder in his side cause him to fall off his seat onto the floor of the cafe.

"You're getting your strength back," he noted standing wincing ever so slightly but highly satified that she was slowly getting back to full health. She smirked in satisfaction as he flopped back in his chair after her. He might just have to challenge to a round in the ring soon. There was just something completely intoxicating fighting with her in the ring with adrenaline slamming through their bodies.

"So, Ginny, the wedding-" Mary started but was immediately cut off by Jen's phone. It went off in a succession of howls making her suddenly pause as if frozen. Ice seemed to have seeped in her veins as she remained fixed in her seat. It can't be; why would they be contacting her?

"Jen, your phone," Mary said. What? How long had she been speaking? "Jen, you phone," she repeated before Jen picked up her phone and stared at the blocked number before shaking she answered it.

"Hello?" she asked her voice cracking worried what news the call would bring. It wouldn't be good; she was sure of it.

"Lupa," the woman whispered not bothering with any code; she was too much of a mess to care about that now. "Ulmar is dead." Ulmar. Ulmar was one of the members she was closest to with his words of reason and gentle ways. His came to her as a shock. No one should know about Shadow, and she shook her head. It's possible this had nothing to do with Shadow. It had to be just a coincidence.

"By who?" Jen asked starting off calm but growing panicked. "What happened? Maiyun! Tell me what happened!" She ended shouting pushing back her chair letting it collapse to the ground as she stood ready to run there if she had to. She needed to know this was not random; this couldn't be because of who he was. It just couldn't.

"I… I don't-"

"Where are you? I'm coming," she said cutting her off needing to see this with her own eyes.

"I'm at his flat; I haven't called the police yet. I don't know what to do," she whimpered looking for answers from the woman. Jen took a deep breath trying to remain calm and set a good example.

"I'll be there just wait for me. Don't call the police," she closed the phone looking to Sherlock. "I need your help; a friend has been killed, and I need to know by who." Sherlock stood ready to help her and just dying for a good case. A murder was exactly what he needed.

"Come on, John," Sherlock demanded needing his physician to work a murder case.

"Uh Mary, I-" John started trying to find an excuse, but it was proving hard since she was sitting right there when Sherlock told him to come with.

"Go," she gestured making him smile as Jen was already out the door hailing a cab but failing. Sherlock held up a hand cause a cab to screech to a halt. Jen didn't bother to give him a look of envy as he slid into the cab.

"So who is it? Who's dead?" John asked reaching them.

"Ulmar, he was the information specialist in Shadow," she said sliding in after Sherlock. "I don't know what happened; I just got a message from Maiyun. She's Ulmar's wife and a former accountant for Shadow."

"Accountant?" John asked surprised shutting the door after he follow suit.

"Well, we needed someone to keep the books," she told him with a slight smile but not really putting her all in it. She was worried, and that much was clear. Not that either of the boys could blame her; she had just lost a friend, but it was so much more than that. If someone killed him because he was in Shadow, it meant danger. She feared what Accalia had warned her of three years previously. A rumor was circulating in remaining members of Shadow, and it put her in a state of shock and fear: Ursa was not dead.

* * *

A dark, short haired woman leaned against the building taking deep breaths as she tried to remain calm and collect especially for the little boy, who was currently holding her hand ignorant of his mother's odd behavior. A cab stopped in front of her making her stand fully erect as some sort of sigh of respect.

"Lupa," she cried out when she got out the cab. The woman threw her arms around her looking for support leaving all dignity aside as she cried out for her lost husband.

"Sh, sh, it will be okay. Calm, Maiyun" she muttered into the woman's hair patting her back. She wished to stay and comfort her, but she had other, more important matters to deal with. She would have to take a page from Sherlock's book and shut off her emotions temporarily. "Where's the body?" she asked stiffly.

"Through here," she whispered taking a step to the building but paused looking down at the boy. "Stay," she told her son before she lead them in the building, up two flights of stairs, and pushed the door open not baring to look inside to see. Jen walked in first followed by John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John got to work right away on the body of a rather small, slim man, who had a single bullet hole in his forehead. His brown hair fell over the clean hole and covered half of his dead amber eyes. Jen lingered staring at the body of her old friend pushing the emotions out of the way. She needed to think clearly; she needed to understand what happened. Mourning had to be saved for later.

"Do you see this, Sherlock?" John asked pointing at the cabinet that held a handgun pointing out of the cabinet at a slight angle. Sherlock stood from the body and looked at the gun before following the thin wire that led from the trigger to a small pulley that then in turn lead to the doors to the cabinet.

"Someone rigged it to shoot whoever opened the cabinet," Sherlock told them turning his attention to the body again. Jen sighed pinching the bridge of her nose; this wasn't looking good. This was too specific to be random, and that terrified her.

"Did your husband have any enemies?" John called out to Maiyun, who stood out in the hallway unable to will herself in. She let out a bitter laugh.

"He was a member of Shadow. Of course he had enemies," she told him as if she was speaking to a child, "but none that could find us. I'm sure of it."

"Why is he holding the landline?" John asked Sherlock noting the phone gripped in his hand. Sherlock slowly moved to the body before he pulled the phone from his hand. Sherlock looked at the caller ID.

"Blocked number," Sherlock told them figuring as much. "Someone called him to tell him to open the cabinet."

"Why would he listen to some stranger over the phone?" John asked.

"Because it wasn't a stranger," Sherlock told them simply having already deduced this much. "Someone he knew called him and told him to open the cabinet. It had to be someone who knew him well. The gun is aimed perfectly so it would shoot him in the head; they had to know his height; they would have to know he would do as they asked." Sherlock looked to Jen, who was rigid. John put a gentle hand on her shoulder, but she didn't react. He was quick to understand this was worry not mourning. She feared someone was targeting members of the dismantled organization, and she would be one of the next targets. He needed to figure this out; her life may depend on it. "What do you usually keep in the cabinet? You've moved it before we got here," Sherlock accused seeing the dust that had formed around what used to be there, papers.

"Its information about Shadow that David… er Ulmar kept through the years. He built on it; it was hobby. He liked to learn more about the members even after we were disbanded." Sherlock paused and slowly turned toward the doorway Maiyun stood outside of.

"You called Ginny for a reason. Why?" he asked. "Why her specifically?"

"Whoever they were who killed David… they stole your file, Lupa," Maiyun whispered wishing she could have stopped them. Wishing she could have strangled them with her own hands even if she was just an accountant. "It's gone, everything. David has been obsessing over your file over the last few days and…"

"So," Sherlock said turning to Jen cutting off Maiyun, "it's not an enemy of his that did that. It's an enemy of yours."

"Mine?" she questioned in a breath not willing to accept this consensus. "Nearly everyone from that life thinks I'm dead with the exception of Accalia, Maiyun, Ulmar, Susi, and Ulric. None of my enemies know I'm alive, Sherlock. I'm sure of that." She wasn't sure; she always had doubts, and this was confirming them. She was terrified that they would target those she cared for. She was terrified if it was... no, she was dead, then again, so was Sherlock Holmes, yet here he was.

"Then how do you explain that?" Sherlock asked pointing at the gun. "David Brown had a bullet put through his brain, because he had inform- oh," Sherlock whispered pushing his hands together under his chin as he realized the answer was staring right at him. "Oh," he breathed against looking at the gun and then at Jen as he put puzzle pieces together. "I missed one; I had to have."

"Missed what?" Jen asked lost.

"Hm?" Sherlock asked feigning ignorance. "Nothing, it's nothing. We can't do anything about this now," he said rushing out of the flat knowing there was nothing else he could find in the flat. "I suggest you call the police," he told Maiyun as he ran down the steps trying to avoid Jen's inevitable questioning.

"Sherlock!" Jen called after him as he came out onto the street; John followed. "Sherlock Holmes! What are you not telling me!? I demand you tell me!" she shouted at him throwing herself in front of his cab door when he didn't answer. "Tell me." He paused and stared at her not sure if he should tell her his theory, tell her how much danger she was in, but she needed to know if only to protect herself.

"Ginny," he breathed, "Moriarty wanted something with you, and I thought I broke up all of his web, but… I may have been… wrong. It's possible there's one here in London still looking for you. Don't you understand?" he asked gripping her shoulders."He was obsessed with you."

"He had a mild interest, Sherlock. I wouldn't say obsessed, and he was only interested in me because of you," she reminded him. He shook his head understanding how she believed that as he himself had once believed them same, but even so, it was wrong and that shook him even just a little. At the same time, it was completely thrilling that his enemy could be challenging him even from beyond the grave.

"I talked to every person close to him, and they all confirmed what I feared. Ginny, you were more than just pawn in his game with me, but I failed; I don't know what he wanted with you." He scanned her face trying to register what she was feeling, but she was showing nothing. She was thinking what he had told her, and she pieced his wonderful little puzzle together. "Ginny?"

"Did you… did you leave to find them for me?" she asked him. He shift in front of her and opened his mouth before he shut it. "Did you ruin your reputation and fake your own death risking your relationship with me, John, everyone just to find out what Moriarty wanted with me?"

"No, no, don't be ridiculous," he told her trying to seem emotionally aloof, but she could see right through him. She always could.

"Do you really… that much?" she asked her voice cracking.

"I didn't know what he wanted with you," Sherlock snapped; she shouldn't be grateful when him leaving helped nothing, "and I still don't, but I couldn't sit back and let him do what he wanted. Don't you understand, Ginny? He's been interested in you since the beginning."

"Sherlock, why didn't you just… I'm sorry," she whispered not giving a rat's ass about Moriarty anymore. "I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" he asked her trying to trace her line of thought. She was being erratic.

"You were trying to tell me from the beginning that you've been fighting for me, and I haven't been listening," she answered with a breath.

"I failed," he told her upset with her apologies this time. "Someone has an extensive file on you, and Moriarty still has you trapped in his web, and I have no idea why or by who."

"I don't care," she replied shaking her head. He stared at her with an incredulous look; she was still a target, and yet, she threw caution to the wind.

"Ginny-"

"I don't," she informed him cutting him off, "let Moriarty do what he wants. I've got you fighting for me, and I still believe you, Sherlock Holmes, even after everything." He stared at her trying to understand her, but at some sort of subconscious level he refused to recognized, he was touched by her words.

"You think I can protect you…?" he asked her.

"Yes," she answered definitely with a smile before she turned to finally enter to cab but paused and turned back to him and stood on her toes kissing his cheek lingering for longer than necessary. His hands settled on her waist quite involuntarily. "Thank you, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry; I thought you did this for your own… I'm sorry," she told him sliding into the cab quietly. He and John followed, and Ginny looked to him hoping he had answers for the murder of her friend.

"So who killed Ulmar?"

"I don't know; they left nothing for me to see. They knew what they were doing," Sherlock told her seeming rather irritated by his lack of knowledge, "but I'll find out."

"So another question then," she told him ready to head in a different direction, "why has Moriarty been so interested in me?"

"I don't know," he told her again sounding aggravated once again. It seemed more and more with incidences involving Jen that he knew nothing. "There is nothing that connects you and Moriarty outside of me! You said it yourself you never… you never… No," he muttered looking at her starting to grasp at an obvious answer. "Oh, of course not. You wouldn't have met him; why would you need to? Oh, but that makes sense."

"What makes sense? Mind filling us in?" John asked gesturing to himself and Jen. She was thankful the good Doctor spoke her thoughts.

"You've never met him, Ginny, but someone you know has. Of course. They have similar ideals."

"Who?" Jen asked with a frown still not understanding.

"Peter," he told her a smile growing on his face. "Don't you understand?" he asked becoming excited. "Moriarty funded serial killers, and your brother was, of course, one of his most profitable killers. Moriarty knew you before you met him. I bet you anything."

"I would have met him," Jen assured him.

"No," Sherlock shook his head, "if you did, he would make sure you didn't know who he was. You were on the side of angels, and he needed your brother. I'll bet you anything that's what connects you to Moriarty."

* * *

"Moriarty," Sherlock said slamming the door open. Peter looked up to Sherlock bored.

"What about Jim?" Peter asked him dully before he continued bouncing a ball off the wall in a bored fashion. He was growing impatient waiting for a chance to… well, it matters little, but a bored serial killer was a very bad thing indeed.

"You knew him," Sherlock replied.

"Every criminal knew James Moriarty," Peter told him before he chucked the ball at John's head, who ducked out of the way as Peter turned to John crossing his legs in Sherlock's chair. "Another boyfriend of yours, Jenma?" he asked observing John in a similar fashion Sherlock did when deducing someone. "Military. Suppose you know how to take down a man?"

"Yeah, I do, so I would watch it if I were you," John warned.

"Military men, nurses, teachers, detectives, bartenders, in the end, they all scream the same," Peter replied tired of this conversation already. He was bored and craved his medication. He craved for screaming to fill his ears and blood to fill his senses. He wanted to watch them squirm and beg, and here he was, being taken care of by a little old lady filling his time with tennis balls and the internet. "I've taken down men like you; it's actually pathetically easy since most men of your occupation tend to be boozers like daddy dearest." His eyes turned to Sherlock forgetting he was in the room for a moment. "Sorry, we were interrupted. You were saying something specific about Jim?"

"He knew Ginny," Sherlock accused. "He knew about her. He's seen her; he was intrigued. How could he not be? A woman whose story he couldn't tell from just looking at her. James Moriarty is me, and to me, Ginny is an exquisite enigma that requires my concentration to solve." Jen felt her mood lift at the Holmesian praise.

"I believe that's the highest degree of compliment you've ever given me; you're making me blush, Mr. Holmes," she teased, and in fact, her face was just a shade darker.

"Shut up, Ginny," but he was suppressing a smile. "Well?" Peter stared at Sherlock before he eyes flashed to Jen. The truth or a lie? Well, it was useless to lie when Holmes already accepted his deduction as truth no matter what he said.

"Jim would… drop by the house to give me the check," Peter admired. "Gina would be running around; barely took a second glance at him, but what he saw, he liked. You think Ursa, James Moriarty's former lover, running into Gina was an accident? You think they were enemies by fate?" Peter smirked. "Oh no. Jim found her, and he wanted to see who could win: my sister or his lover, and the winner gets his attention. He thought it was a stalemate though; he thought they killed each other until as fate should have it, he stumbled across you, Mr. Holmes, and there she was waiting."

"No," Sherlock said viciously getting too close to Peter now. "Moriarty didn't care if he lived; he wanted something specific, something that could be accomplished even after his death. What?" Peter took a breath and stood pushing Sherlock away from him.

"I don't know," he lied. "I haven't seen Jim in years. Locked away, remember? Whatever he had planned for Gina isn't something I have the privilege to know."

"Why didn't you tell me any of this?" Jen asked as he made his way to the stairs to the room he had been sleeping in.

"Oh, I didn't think it was so important; can't change the past," he told her walking up the stairs leaving them wishing to remain out of the interrogator's eye.

"Well, he seems a real joy," John remarked bitterly as Jen sighed and let herself fall into her chair. She tilted her head back and stared at the ceiling. Her hands slowly slid down her jacket, and Sherlock watched her hands carefully.

"Why do you were his jacket so often?" Sherlock asked. She was muttering something incomprehensible to herself. He came closer to her trying to hear what she was saying, but she jolted out what seemed to be a trance. Perhaps she was in her version of a mind palace, though he imagined it was cluttered and wasn't often used as his was. Interesting, he was sure, wishing he could take a peek inside.

"What?" she asked not catching his earlier question.

"The jacket, why do you wear it so often?" he repeated by seemed to grow weary of repeating himself.

"Seems like a waste for something so expensive-" she started.

"No," he disagreed with her reasoning. "You don't care for materialism. Why do you wear it?" She seemed to be searching for an answer before she shrugged.

"I just… do," she told him shaking her head. Sherlock sat in his chair and pushed his hands together under his chin.

"I better get off to Mary," John told them causing Jen to stand.

"Tell Mary sorry about lunch," she said before kissing his cheek. He headed off not waiting for so much as a good-bye from Sherlock, who was deep in his mind palace. Jen sat down before she picked up one of her sketch books and a pencil. She might as well do something while Sherlock's stuck riffling through her room in his mind palace…

He pulled the large wooden double doors open to Jen's room in his mind palace. The room was brightly lit with several windows that looked out into various memories that could be switched at will. Currently the five memories that were playing on the windows of the room were the first time they had spoken in school, the first time he had met Jen in London, their time alone in Holmes manor, the 'date' to the opera, and lastly, the last time he spoke to her since his suicide, and the first time he spoke to her after as well. The room, he noted since he had last been in there, had grown rather alarmingly large. It contained several book shelves as well as furniture that were all some sort of antique including Jen's piano that currently had a ghost of Jen from Christmas singing I Hold Your Hand In Mine. Some of Jen's paintings were framed on to wall. Sherlock could hear her speaking the article she wrote aloud as a nagging reminder.

"Can I help you, Sherlock?" Jen asked standing from in front of him in jeans and her green jumper. She smiled at him, a smile she always reserved for him. He had grown fond of that smile, and its gentle acceptance. This was how he enjoyed remembering her.

"Moriarty," he told her.

"James Moriarty. One-to-one psychopath," she replied.

"Yes, I know that much," he told her with a growl. "Tell me about your childhood, Ginny."

"Of course," she said with a nod. "We've discussed it many times. My mother-"

"Start from the age of 15," he told her. The room seemed to have glitched slightly as Jen changed from the woman today to the dyed-blonde girl who had too much makeup on and too many piercings and tattoos. She was wearing her school uniform as he remembered it.

"What do you want to know, Mr. Holmes?" she asked.

"Tell me about yourself, Ginny."

"There's not much to tell," she told him with a shrug. "I rebelled against my brother is some silly attempt to find freedom. I wanted to go back to my family. I like the arts and would like to be a performer. I killed Connor Waite. I-"

"Wait, go back," he told her.

"I killed Connor Waite?" she questioned. "It's not really so important, Mr. Holmes."

"Yes, no, not to me," he told her. "Tell me what you know about Connor Waite."

"He was a psychopath," Ginny replied. "He tried to rape me and kill me; I killed him first."

"You killed him first," he whispered.

"What was that?" Jen asked as the room faded, and he was staring at Jen, who was now sipping tea glancing at him while a sketch book remained in her lap.

"Connor Waite," Sherlock told her. "We need to know about Connor Waite."

"What about him?" she frowned not understanding where he came in to play.

"It is my belief that he knew Moriarty," Sherlock told her standing, "and as fate would have it, if you believe in that sort of idiotic thing," he muttered throwing his papers around before he found what he was looking for. He handed it to Jen, who took the invitation.

"How often do you get these?" she asked rolling her eyes. It was a function inviting all the school's alumni to come and participate in events that would require them throwing their money at a school that didn't need any more funding.

"I don't know; I usual ignore them," he told her, "but this time I'll have to go, and you're coming with me."

"But," she pointed toward the stairs that led to her brother.

"Mrs. Hudson and Damon will watch him. We'll only be gone for a day or so," he replied with a wave of his hand to dismiss the worry. "If Connor has a connection to Moriarty, and you killed him, that put you in his path, Ginny," Sherlock told her. "Everything will start coming together." She sighed not ever wanting to go back to the school, but nodded agreeing it was the best route. "I don't like it either, believe me." He collapsed into his chair. "The last time I was at that wretched school everyone thought I had murdered you and Connor. It had quite the advantage; they all avoided me as if they feared me. Laughable really."

"Well, this should be fun then," she replied with a smile. "I'll be coming back from the dead."

"Hm," he mused with a smile. Perhaps this would be just a little fun with the dead coming back to life and serial killers roaming the grounds.

* * *

A/n: Wowza, long chapter. I had a really hard time writing this, and I'm not entirely sure I like it yet. Also, much to my annoyance, as we progress further and further along, I feel like Sherlock is getting out of character. Oi. On the bright side, your author would like to share her personal victory. I just got my acceptance letter to my university of choice, so that is quite exciting.

Thanks to reviewers: hannahhobnob, zare . downey . okumura, and knetterzak. Still considering looking for a beta kids. Anyway, I will see you next Saturday as the twice a week updates are stopping here on as I do have school. Review please! Let me know how I am doing!


	8. Connections

They both sat in the car staring at the school in disgust. Here lied lives they had both left behind. Jen was no longer the rebellious girl screaming for attention, and Sherlock was no longer the little boy dying to be heard. Well, he was dying to be heard, but for once, he was actually listened to. People couldn't push him around like they could when he was a child.

"Ready?" she asked him though she, herself, was anything but ready.

"Get the information, get out," Sherlock told her wanting to be done with this as quickly as possible. She nodded in agreement before she nervously smoothed out the grey sweater-dress she was wearing. Jen had done a lot of regrettable things as a teenager that she would rather forget: all the drugs, all the sex, the murder, and here she was back with people who knew her as that girl.

"Agreed," she replied with a nod before they both slipped out of the car to head to the check-in table before they would be forced to join the activities they both despised. Get in, get out, they both told themselves. This was for Jen's sake.

"Invitation?" the woman asked. Sherlock sighed and took the invitation out to hand to her. She took it and looked down at the invitation before quickly scribbling his name down in the guest book with +1 next to him allowing them to continue forward passed the table and toward the crowd of people.

"Our best source of information would be Harry Kendells," Sherlock informed her. That much was obvious. Harry Kendells was Connor Waite's roommate, and though he didn't have a sparkling reputation, he wasn't the worst of the boys in the school. Jen had known him fairly well, but all the drugs had left blank patches in her memory of her time at school.

"I agree, but will he even be here?" she asked him looking up at his scanning eyes. He was trying to find the needle in a haystack, but with the number of people there, his senses were overloading.

"Yes, he always comes to these," Sherlock replied not bothering to look down in order to speak to her. "I did a little research before we left."

"Of course you did," she laughed before her eyes started looking for the man they had both been discussing though she wasn't sure how useful she was. "Though, Harry was an ass at times, I don't think him capable of murdering someone or letting someone get away with it if he knew."

"He could have known about Moriarty without knowing about the murders," Sherlock told her, "especially since they were roommates. Kendells would have likely seen Connor at his worst moments; something may have slipped."

"Maybe we should split up," Jen said turning around to look at all the people feeling a bit overwhelmed. "This isn't just our class. There's a lot of people here." She spun back around to Sherlock to see he had already disappeared having the same thought she did far earlier. Jen sighed though she knew she should have expected as much; according to John, this was a common occurrence on the case.

Jen began walking around trying to spot people she knew, but years had passed and the girls and boys had grown into men and women. Come on, she pushed herself. Mental states rapidly changed from adolescents to adulthood, so she couldn't tell through that way. She had to just take a guess, but it actually wasn't as hard as she initially believed. As it turned out, Harry Kendells hadn't changed much since school.

He was a brunette man, who at some point in his life may have broken his nose judging from its odd angle, speaking with a woman of Asian ancestry, Amy Kim, and another three she likely went to school with. Ah, yes. There was Parker Jensen, an elliptic that was harshly bullied in school; he had certainly grown into his lanky figure and red hair, and next to him was a woman name Maggie Fletcher; she used to have a bad stutter causing her to often try and shrink against the wall. The last man was Jacob Hutchens; he hung around with her crowd and was often the one selling the coke, heroin, cigs, and alcohol they used.

"I'm sorry," she interrupted trying to linger back and not seem to overly impatient to speak with them. Her eyes fell on her former roommate, Amy. She had perhaps been the closest to Jen allowing her an in to talk to Kendells. "Amy?"

"Do I know you?" she asked as everyone turned their eyes to her. She fidgeted slightly on the spot.

"Um… I doubt you remember me," she told them hoping Sherlock would pop back up. "Ginevra Lorraine," she said making them all stare at her like they were seeing a ghost. She bit her lip holding back a laugh; Sherlock was missing all the fun. Where was he?

"Gin?" Harry asked her doubting that the woman before him was the same girl he knew in school. Until that is, she smiled, a smile that could not duplicated.

"Harry," she smiled. He let out a laugh.

"Holy hell," he commented staring at her hugging her in utter shock and amazement. He pulled away quickly and looked her over still in disbelief. "We thought you were dead.

"Dead?" she laughed playing ignorant for her and Sherlock's sake. "Why?"

"Well… we thought," Maggie tried to explain but quickly shook it away deciding telling her why was pointless, perhaps even harmful now. "Nothing. I can't believe you're here."

"How are all you?" she looked at each member of the small group before falling on Maggie Fletcher. "I see you lost your stutter Maggie. Good for you."

"Thank you," she smiled. "Years of therapy."

"Oh? Was it psychological?" she asked unsure how to even go about bringing up Connor especially when they all seemed to want to forget. "You know not a lot of study has gone into stuttering. I myself find it to be one of the most common signs of emotional and psychological damage if it occurs in someone who has no other reason to have a stutter such as stroke and under developed bone and muscle." Jacob chuckled.

"I'm sorry. Who are you and what have you done with the Ginny we know?" he asked. "What happened to the girl who was high or drunk half the time who threw fits and slept with half the school? Hell, I got in your pants a couple of times."

"Did you?" she asked with a shrug tensing a little; Jacob was scum, and he always will be. He was a sadistic opportunist. "I don't remember. I've grown up. I graduated from Cambridge with a degree in criminal law and psychology before continuing on to medical school to become a psychiatrist while I worked with Scotland Yard. I dabbled for a while in different countries after quitting, and then I moved back to London. I worked in St. Bart's for a while. I'm sort of between jobs right now."

"You've been up to quite a bit then," Parker observed. She nodded.

"Yeah, well, I don't usually sit still for long," she told them.

"Seeing anyone?" Jacob asked, and if she said yes, I have a boyfriend, who's currently not talking to me in London, there was room for Jacob to flirt with her relentlessly trying to be a warm body in her bed, so she made the proper decision to lie. She nodded.

"Yes, I've been engaged for a little over two years now," she smiled. "Um…" she turned to see Sherlock speaking to the old headmaster. "Oh, there he is," she pointed him out. Oh, this was going to be interesting.

"Well, he's easy on the eyes," Maggie laughed as Jen gestured to him to come over. He paused to observe the group before he continued toward her.

"Agreed," Amy grinned as he nearly reached them.

"Sherlock," she called out as he came and put his arm around her waist. He had analyzed the situation before reaching her and knew without being told what was happening. It was obvious from the twitch in Jen's hand when she was lying and the way Jacob was looking at her like she was meat. "You remember my roommate, Amy Kim, and then my friends Harry, Jacob, Parker, and Maggie?"

"I recall them," he told her looking at each of them quickly deducing them but saying nothing in the case. He would fill in Jen later, she was sure.

"Sherlock Holmes?" Harry asked sounding equally surprised at Jen being 'engaged' to Sherlock.

"Yeah," Jen said smiling up at him; he played the fake couple aspect perfectly as he looked down at her with a loving smile. "We had a… thing in school, and we got back together when I moved back to London. Share a flat together on Baker Street; we've even got a dog."

"I didn't approve of that," he reminded her playfully. She was so giving him hell for this when they got home.

"Too damn bad," she told him equally playful making her crinkle her nose, a sign of being cutesy, but in this case, Sherlock knew it was a sign of her nausea. She had never been the kind to enjoy a typical, loving relationship, so the whole experience was enough to make her feel ill. He couldn't agreed more.

"Wait, wait, wait," Harry said shaking his head trying to make sense of this, "so you and him… he had nothing to do with Connor's death?"

"No?" Jen questioned titling her head making Sherlock admire her rather impressive acting abilities. "Why would he?"

"Well, it's just… nevermind," Harry said shaking his head. "Congratulations on the engagement, mate. Gin's a wonderful girl." Harry held out his hand.

"I'm aware," Sherlock told him before deciding to humor him and shake his hand. Jen and Sherlock were both to get a good laugh out of this when they got the chance.

"Set a date yet?" Maggie asked.

"No, we want a long engagement. No rush," she told her. "Our friend John is getting married in May though, so maybe we'll do it sometime after that." Sherlock turned and seemed to be looking around for something alerting his fake fiance. "What?" she asked him wondering why he seemed to be twitching and searching. It couldn't be a good sign.

"Vatican cameos," he told her quickly causing her to go rigid.

"What? Here? Now? Why?" she snapped at him in panic. This couldn't be an coincidence. They were here investigating Moriarty, and now, someone was about to die. This was no accident.

"Vatican cameos?" Parker asked not understanding the reference.

"It means something is about to happen; someone's about to die," she told them turning looking for a threat as everyone in the group stared at her as if they had grown two new heads.

"What?!" Maggie shouted. "What do you-"

"Shut up, shut up," Sherlock snapped trying to figure it out. He was quickly eliminating people trying to find the target and the attacker. "It has to be someone here regularly," he said quickly, "but why now? Why… oh," he said turning to the group. "Because someone knows something they shouldn't," his eyes flickered over each of them. "One of you is about to die, and information you may know may just save your life. Moriarty; what do you know?"

"Moriarty?" Harry asked. "What do you mean?"

"Moriarty! Psychopath! Somehow connected to Conner!" Sherlock shouted at them frustrated with their lack of knowledge. As far as he was concerned, they were idiots.

"You're asking the wrong question," Jen told him shoving him aside to question them. "Connor. One of you knows something about Connor, something you've kept quiet for years. Spill! Now!" They all looked at each other before she went down the line. "Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Trauma," her eyes fell on Maggie. "Of course. You didn't always have that stutter. Maggie, tell me. Your life may depend on it."

"I… I…" she seemed to have gained back her stutter in a moment of stress.

"You will have a bullet tear through your brain if you don't tell me what it is you know!" Sherlock shouted at her gripping her shoulders in alarm and a sense of hurry.

"There was… there was a cellar hidden behind the south wall," she told him unable to stop the words from spilling out. "I… I saw Connor entering there one day… there was… so much blood. I was so scared… I didn't…," Maggie paused. "I- I think he killed those girls in the town."

"Ah thank you, Maggie. Very useful," Sherlock said as his face wiped clean of all emotion as he let Maggie go. "Ginny, we have things to do."

"What about the threat on Maggie?!" Parker asked reasonably alarmed at how calm he had fallen.

"Oh, there was never a threat," Sherlock told them as he walked away expecting Jen to follow. "I just needed the truth, and I needed it quick." Jen's eyes lingered on Maggie for a moment longer to question her.

"You should have come forward about this years ago," Jen told her. "You let those families live their lives without closure. Connor's dead, Maggie. What are you so scared of?"

"Ginny," Sherlock called causing her to run after him as they headed toward the south wall.

"You scared the hell out of them," Jen told him. He smiled vaguely amused by the idea of terrifying someone; it wasn't healthy, but Jen felt a smile threaten to press at her lips as well.

"It was an effective method though," he mused as they continued walking across the school grounds at a quick pace. He wanted to get out of there as fast as possible; there was still so much to do. He hadn't even begun to investigate the atmosphere surrounding Ulmar's death.

"I suppose that's true," she replied not able to argue with his methods when they got results. A large stone wall came into their line of sight causing them both to pick up their pace before they finally reached it. Sherlock was quick on his assessment.

"On the other side," he told her jumping up and grabbing the edge of the wall before pulling himself up. He offered a hand to Jen, who he helped get up before they jumped on the other side of the wall. "Now a cellar," he said looking around before he began stepping around the grounds listening for the sound of a hollow room below. His feet hit the ground, and instead of a barely audible noise, a large thump sounded. He quickly moved aside the dirt before he found the hatched and pulled. A rancid, putrid smell float up into the clean air making Jen gag.

"You don't think there are any bodies down there, do you?" she asked. She wasn't unfamiliar with bodies, but she didn't feel like going down there only to discover a rotting body of some poor woman.

"It's possible," he answered before he quickly started down the stairs with Jen coming after him. The smell was suffocating at the bottom. She wasn't sure which was worse: breathing through her nose and getting to full impact of the sent or breathing through her mouth and getting a slight taste of the smell. Jen's hand went to the wall trying to find some sort of light switch; she found it switching it up. An old lightbulb flickered on revealing the small stone cellar. She could see a mattress in the corner making her want to throw up seeing blood surrounding it.

"This is sick," she told him gagging as she clung onto a wall.

"I've seen worse," Sherlock told her. "One of the first serial rapists I had ever caught kept his victims in cages with manacles around their necks. He would impregnate them and then stab them to death in their third trimester killing both the woman and the baby." Jen shuttered.

"Why?" she asked as Sherlock looked around giving a flashlight to Jen and then clicking on a small flashlight of his own to check the darker parts of the cellar.

"He stabbed his wife to death in her third trimester when he found out she was pregnant with another man's baby," he answered.

"Right, of course," she muttered rolling her eyes. "So what am I looking for?"

"Anything," he told her making her roll her eyes again as she made her way toward the bed that Connor had raped and killed his victims. She felt queasy and held onto the wall for support. She had seen dozen of bodies and created dozens, yet, she had been so close to the fate before her.

"How many do you think he actually killed? I'm sure there were some unaccounted for," she told him as she flashed her light over the scene.

"Based on the blood splatter," Sherlock said flickering the light over the bed and the gravel around it that still had a slight hue of crimson. "Thirteen."

"I was going to the fourteenth down here screaming," she said leaning against the wooden post.

"I would have found you before he killed you," Sherlock assured her entering the crime scene and quickly looking against the walls for anything useful.

"Yeah, you better have," she told him before he went 'ah' and pulled a stone out from the wall revealing a hollow with a collection of papers. Sherlock took them out and quickly went through them with a smile growing on his face like he had just found his Christmas presents. "Find something?"

"Look," he told her coming to her before he quickly started flipping through the letters that he was holding. The letters were written neatly on rather pricey paper and were very obviously addressed to Conner. Each letter ended with the initials: JM. "Each one talks about Connor being employed by this JM. Wonder who that is," Sherlock told her with a smile.

"So… Moriarty paid Connor to kill these women?" Jen asked skimming over the letters. They weren't very detailed but detailed enough that they got the point: payment for a body.

"So it would seem," Sherlock said, "until you killed him. Oh, Ginny. You led him right to you; it wouldn't have gotten passed him that you were the one who killed Connor. Oh, and he found you, and what did he find? Your brother was a serial killer, and he couldn't resist."

"But," she said pausing and flipping through the letters, "why now? This was years ago. Why didn't he approach me sooner?"

"I don't-" Sherlock paused before he whispered an oh. "You were being watched; Robbie was watching you, and then Damon was lingering over you. He couldn't get close without them being suspicious until you and him met again through me."

"Coincidence?" Jen asked.

"He didn't realize who you were, not at first," Sherlock told her quickly, "not until you told him you were a member of Shadow."

"Okay, fine, but what does he want? We still don't know. If he wanted me, for whatever reason, that couldn't happen if he's dead. What could he want even with him dead?"

"He could want a lot of things, but none of them fit all the evidence," Sherlock told her making her sigh. She leaned against the wooden beam again. This was getting exhausting.

"Call the police," she told Sherlock. "Let them close the case of the murdered girls. Then, let's get out of here." Sherlock nodded pulling his phone from his jacket; he was ready to leave this place behind. It was bad enough having to come here to begin with.

* * *

Exhausted from their trip, Jen let herself fall face down the couch, and being the helpful dog he was, Toby jumped up and laid on her back making her groan.

"How was the school function?" Peter asked making her groan again. "Better than being stuck in her with a babysitter." Peter glanced at Mrs. Hudson, who was making tea for the new arrivals. Sherlock had taken a spot in his chair in his usual thinking position.

"I beg to differ," she told him looking at him. He was sitting at the table with her computer in his hands. "What are you doing?"

"I am currently updating myself with the world I have missed since I was locked away in that hell," Peter replied as he continued to type away as if he had always had a computer at his fingertips putting in her awe at her brother's talents of picking things up so quickly. "What the hell is a twitter and why do I want one?"

"Beats me," she replied despising technology as much as it disagreed with her, "but Irene's on there as the whip hand. Still uses it despite the fact that she's supposed to be dead." Peter grunted out not really caring much for his other sister; the two never got on well. Though she was closer to his own age, she was always an independent one, constantly away from the house. Jen's phone buzzed out letting her know she has a text. She scrambled to find her phone in her pocket.

**Dinner? –Mark **Seems he's finally willing to talk ending their last few days of silence. Good for him since she sure as hell wasn't going to apologize.

Jen tapped her phone considering having dinner with him but looked to Peter, who had been bored out of his mind the last few days. Any longer he was alone, and he may just crack. Her eyes then glanced at Sherlock, who was still deep in his mind palace. She looked back to her phone before typing out her text.

**Takeaway at my flat? –Jen**

"He's not coming over here," Peter warned her easily taking a guess from her emotional state of annoyed quickly turning to contemplation as she glanced between Sherlock and himself. It didn't take a genius to figure it out.

"Yes, he is," she scowled, "I'm dating him, Peter. Get over it." She loved her brother dearly, but sometimes he was a controlling pain in her ass. He had no say in her personal life, and he knew that, but that just proved to aggravate him more. Her phone went off again.

**I'll pick something up and swing around with Lucy. –Mark**

"He's dull. How can you stand it?" Peter asked letting his head fall to the table with a bang. It was one of his deepest shames to have a sister who dated someone so pathetically normal. Normal was worse than boring; it was disgusting, the worst thing to be. Society was built on normality and anyone who didn't fit in their structured little idea was thrown to the side or told they're ill.

"He's nice," she replied simply really not giving her all in defending him. She didn't need to defend her decisions to him nor anyone else.

"Boring," Sherlock agreed not even bothering opening his eyes to look at her making her scowl. He had been rudely pulled from his mind palace at their bickering.

"You, shut up," she ordered Sherlock snapping her fingers at him; he opened his eyes halfway to give her an unsavory look. "So I can't date nice guys now? Is that it?"

"Nice isn't your type," Sherlock told her obviously. It was sad that by now he could pick out her dating habits; hell, if he wanted to, he could pick out someone suitable, but of course, that would just be inconvenient. "Your only serious relational was with a man you eventually had to kill. You're not boring, Ginny. Boring and not boring are like oil and water. They don't mix."

"So what? I should date someone not boring? Like you?" She asked rolling her eyes to look at him.

"Don't be ridiculous," he scowled standing to avoid her gaze at the accusation. "I'm married to my work." His eyes went to his computer; he hadn't check for cases in days. He leaned over open the laptop to focus his attentions elsewhere.

"I didn't mean you," she scowled at his assumption, arrogant man. "I meant like you… so you know, a mental patient."

"Oh, shut up, Ginny," he told her opening his mail to look through cases as the door to the flat opened. Lucy went skipping over to Sherlock to say hello to her 'uncle' blatantly ignoring Jen.

"What have you been up to?" Mark asked looking down at her continuing where they left off not bothering to apologize for his pressing nature and being slightly bothered by her lack of 'opening up' to him. He wasn't her therapist, and it wasn't his business. She sat up briefly, so he could sit on the couch before she let herself fall back into his lap.

"I went with Sherlock to something of a reunion and discovered the identity of a serial killer that has been hidden since I was fifteen," she told him as if it was a dull day. With Sherlock Holmes, this was a normal day, and admittedly, she missed it.

"Oh? That's all?" he teased making her smile.

"Well," she grinned up at him, "you know just such a boring life." She reached behind her and took the book from the side table before flipping it open. She had had a tiresome day and was ready to wind down before Sherlock dragged her back into another case. She predicted it would happen more and more as they got closer to the wedding. People tend to disappear when they marry, and Sherlock feared this is what would happen with John. Though, Jen knew Mary would never allow that to happen.

"Talk to me," he told her when he realized she was going to start reading not saying much after, and there it was. The nagging need to know about her life; she was giving him the present and wasn't sure why that wasn't enough.

"Hm? Why?" she asked. "I'm content like this."

"You just… you don't really communicate," he replied exhausted making Sherlock scoff. The whole room looked toward him; he looked up surprised that was aloud and chose to explain.

"She communicates plenty; you just don't listen and don't observe," Sherlock told him before looking back to his computer.

"Really?" Mark challenged.

"Birthname: Ginevra Lorraine Juliette Verown, though she hasn't used Juliette or Verown since the age of thirteen this is due to the dislike of the name Juliette and the drop of Verown at her brother's request. Former profilier, linguist, and psychology expert; she's been in love twice in her life but have slept with numerous men and women before you, but of course, those are facts you can look up. Every person has there ticks such as pet peeves: people text while speaking with her, those who speak to children like their bumbling idiots, and hypochondriacs, likes: books, rain, the arts, long socks, those little umbrellas they put in alcoholic drinks, B-rated movies, and the way light reflects of broken glass, dislikes: jewelry, people, ideal chitchat- apparently it's the instrument of the devil-, mathematics, sciences, technology, romantic comedies, florescent lighting, and the way a window screeches when its haven't opened in a while, dreams- to take the stage once again and maybe have a child, though she won't admit that aloud, and of course, the little things: the way her left hand twitches in moments of nervousness including when she's lying, her knee that bothers her when the weathers bad, the difference between a smile that lies and a true smile, her habit of singing while she paints, and I could keep going if you'd like." Mark's jaw was clenched staring at Sherlock before he turned to Jen.

"Good to know you talk to someone," he snapped jealous of how much Sherlock knew. Before she could say anything, Lucy called at her ready to defuse the tension. She looked at the little girl, who was sitting in John's chair swinging her legs.

"What is it, darling?" she asked with a smile that wasn't quite all there.

"Uncle Sherlock said that if I asked nice, you would play something on the piano for me," she replied making Jen smile brighter ready to veer toward a different direction to avoid Mark's accusations.

"Sure," she replied getting up and putting her book back on the side table before going to her piano and resting her hands on the keys trying to decide what she wanted to play before deciding on a song.

"What is it called?" Lucy asked sitting next to her as she continued to play.

"Liebesträume," she told her looking at her with half-lidded eyes getting lost in the music, "by Franz Liszt. In a time when musical hysteria was virtually unheard of, Liszt's music was said to be so intoxicating that it would send fans into a frenzy, and they would rip each other apart just for a look at him. They called it Lisztomania."

"Why would they be so excited to see him play?" Lucy asked her as she continued the piece. Jen considered the question for a moment.

"Well, some try and logic it out, but I think it was his brilliance," Jen told her with a smile. "The women who went to see him loved him for the art he made, for the brilliant mind that created it. It wasn't just the music they loved; it was Liszt himself. I had a crush on him when I was your age. Always go for the clever ones, they keep you on your feet."

"Thanks for the advice, Mum," Lucy told her with a teasing smile making her grin brightly. It had been a while since she had played someone's mom, and she was happy to do so. Perhaps Sherlock was right; maybe she did desire having a child, but then again, she had long since put that idea on the shelf.

"Well, I like to think myself semi-motherly," she told her with a nod putting the idea back on the shelf before she could even pick it up.

"I consider you my second mom," Lucy admitted with a shrug. Lucy assumed Jen knew this already; after all, she barely knew her own mom, and she often went to Jen with the questions she thought were too weird to ask her father.

"You do?" Jen asked her tilting her head.

"Of course," she laughed.

"Hm," she mused finishing Liszt's piece as the doorbell rang.

"I'll get it," Peter said standing to go get the takeaway that Mark had ordered. It was getting really absurd how often they ate take away or ate out. Someone besides Mrs. Hudson really needed to learn to cook. Peter came back with the food and the money he was supposed to pay the delivery boy. "Ran off before I could pay for it," he said tossing the money on the table making Jen get up and hit him for scaring the delivery man.

The five sat down at the table to eat in relative silence; Mark seemed annoyed with Jen snapping at her but not telling her why he was throwing a childlike tantrum, so she dropped it and was silent while they ate. Mark and Lucy left after dinner leaving the three in peace, but Peter was never happy with peace and insisted on starting something with Jen.

"They're making you soft," Peter told her throwing himself down onto the couch in an expression of exhaustion and disapproval.

"I'm sorry?" she questioned Peter looking up from clearing up dinner. His eyes went to her before he sighed ready to address this issue to its full extent; it needed to be addressed.

"They're making you soft," Peter repeated in disgust letting his face show it with no shame. "You're becoming too nice, too sickeningly sweet. It's nauseous; he's dulling down your wit. She's making you melt at little words."

"Maybe I want to be nice," she told him simply. "I'm not you Peter."

"No," he remarked. but he seemed distant with his response. "No, you're not." His eyes linger on her before something seemed to be turning in his brain. What it was, she couldn't say, and before she could figure it out, he switched topics. "How was the trip to find information on James Moriarty?"

"Apparently, he knew Connor Waite," Jen told him. Sherlock looked up from his computer to watch Peter's reaction; he showed none, and Sherlock had suspected that he knew already, and that he knew a lot more than he was telling them. Perhaps he would look into Peter's visitation records. "We found letters that Moriarty sent to Connor. Sherlock's going to see if he can track the location from the type of paper and the fragments on it."

"Hm," Peter frowned before he stood. "I'm going bed. Night."

"Night?" she questioned wondering why he had suddenly switched gears. She couldn't know that there digging was making him nervous. She couldn't tell what was going on his mind. She couldn't see the gears turning as he realized it was time to give Mr. Holmes something else to focus on. Oh, and it was about time.

* * *

A/N: Whoa, I said last time that last Wednesday would be my last Wednesday update, but whoa! Two days off school due to the freeze the States is in right now. We got down to -40 in Chicago. That's pretty cold, and it's gonna be 26 F (-3 C) tomorrow! Holy Jesus! That's like summer! (The sad thing is around here, yeah, that is really warm for winter, so I will likely go for a nice walk in nothing but a hoodie- again wish I was joking).

Thanks to reviewers: short-skirtbluescarf, zare .downey .okumura, TragicBlossoms, hannahhobnob, and flaming-amber! I'll see you next... let's actually go with Sunday. Review please!


	9. Hopeless

_**Whoa, time out there. Very mild M warning throughout and mild spoiler for episode three of series three.**  
_

* * *

_Mark leaned into her with a kiss making her grin as she wrapped her hands around his neck pulling him close. His hands slipped around her waist bringing her in close. Her back hit the wall behind her allowing him to press his body into hers feeling the familiar warmth of _

_"Jen," he murmured before the grip on her slipped down digging his hands into her hips before biting down onto her shoulder not in a playful way but rather brutally as if he was marking his territory._

_"Mark!" she shouted shoving away, but when he faced her with a laugh, she was no longer facing Mark. In front of her Moriarty was grinning at her in some sort of expression of both mischievousness and a promise of future pain. "Not you!" she gasped stumbling sideways into the side table shattering a picture of herself in two. You're dead!"_

_"What's wrong beautiful? You look scared," he teased grabbing her wrist and twisting it, but she struggled against him._

_"Get away from me!" she shouted throwing his hand off her. _

_"Why should I when you like it?" he sang. "Masochist," he purred tracing her jawline with his thumb._

_"Sadist," she snapped throwing his hands off her again, but it just forced him to retaliate. He grabbed her and threw her onto the bed. "Stay away from me! Stay away!" she cried covering her as he moved toward her like a lion toward its pray. She felt his hands force her legs apart, and she tried to find her voice to scream, but all she could do was cry keeping her eyes shut._

_"Ginny," a voice uttered forcing her to peek through her fingers to see Sherlock kneeling between her legs looking down at her with an expression of worry. _

_"Sherlock?" she whimpered sitting up now making the distance between them smaller. _

_"Ginny," he whispered as they leaned closer to each other before his nose gently skimmed hers as they practically breathed each other in. _

_"Sherlock," she breathed bringing her body in to meet his. _

_"My Ginny," he muttered before he dived in bringing her lips to his in a kiss that shamed all others she had ever experienced both in terms of skill and chemistry. His kiss was a drug she would gladly take over and over and over again. "Ginny," he breathed._

_"Sherlock," she moaned as he kissed her neck. Their clothes were gone without her caring what had happened to them, and foreplay was over before it began as he moved inside of her slow, rhythmically, and intimately putting his lips to hers more often than not. She breathed out his name over and over again letting it mix with her moans he graciously forced out of her. He breathed her in, his hands running across every sensitive spot making her squirm under his grasp. _

Sherlock's phone rang making her groan out and turn to look at him standing in front of the window talking on his phone. She must have fallen asleep on the couch while she was reading; did Sherlock even go to bed? She glanced at the chair and then the kitchen, where an experiment had appeared over night; he must have been unusually quiet last night.

In fact, Sherlock was anything but quiet the previous night; he had spent his time in his mind palace riffling quickly through Jen's and Moriarty's room even turning his eyes to Peter's small closet space. When he had failed to find anything useful, he sought to do something with his hands and started an experiment but found himself unable to complete it having to stop every five minutes to glance at the woman on the couch. Giving up, he went to the window and begin to play his violin, an activity that soothed her sleep rather than agitate it. All the while, he had his eyes transfixed on her feeling lower than he had in a while. He was failing her, and despite being one of the most brilliant minds available, he was losing Jen in Moriarty's unknown game.

"Sherlock?" she called out her voice cracking from having just woken up. He looked to her still on the phone, but her brain wasn't comprehending what he was saying, and before she could manage to make out anything of interest, he hung up the phone and came closer to her as she sat up.

"I have a body," he told her, but it seemed to lack its usually enthusiasm making her eyebrows crease together. "I'm going to look at it with John."

"Oh," she smiled wiping the worry from her features as she stretched. "Okay, have fun, Sherlock. I know how much you love murders." He looked down and smiled fondly at her.

"Ginny," he muttered wanting to say something to reassure her. All the evidence was piling up against her and against him. Moriarty's last game was wearing him down, and his own emotions were pounding against him threatening to flood out. Deny it as much as he would like to, he was worried for her. He wanted to tell her something, anything to let her know she was safe, but she distracted him in way no one else could.

"Yes?" she questioned, and he continued to stare down. Her hair was completely disheveled, and her eyes seemed to be brimming with sexuality, her cheeks flushed. It was possibly he had awoken her out of an erotic dream of some sort. He had no idea. _  
_

He could rarely appreciate beauty; he saw the science behind everything, and yet, his inability to deduce Jen allowed him to see passed the science to see what made a human beautiful. Perhaps it never occurred to him before, but if he had to compare someone as beautiful he matched them up to Jen. What did they have similar to her? Though, evolutionarily speaking, she wasn't the ideal mate. She didn't have particularly wide hips or large breasts. In fact, she was so small, he wondered if she could even have children without it being risky. That being said, proportionally with her small body, she did have rather nice assets. He could definitely see the appeal in- what? No. What are you doing? Not now. Don't think about _that._ You have a superior mind; you don't have time to be thinking about those things.

"Sherlock?" Jen questioned.

"Hm?" he managed to squeak out.

"You've been staring at me for the last ten minutes. You have a body, remember" she reminded him biting her lip not nervously but rather playfully. He seemed incredibly distracted, and admittedly, she was equally distracted trying to shake herself of her dreams.

"Right," he said shaking his head clear of those thoughts. He had to get himself in check, for God's sake. He pulled on his coat and scarf before Jen spoke interrupting his thoughts.

"Are you going to be picking up John?"

"Yes," he answered.

"Would I be terribly bothersome if I asked you to wait five minutes so I can dress. I want to see Mary," she stood waiting for the answer. Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Thanks," she said before quickly running up to her room. She came back within the five minutes in jeans and her green sweater. "Alright," she said happily before the two skipped down the steps together. Sherlock called a cab out on the street, and they headed down Baker Street to pick up John before going to the crime scene. The doctor was a requirement in his investigating, and it just so happened he had the spare time. "So, were you up all night?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered. "You were out early."

"I was exhausted," she admitted. "Peter and Mark are both taking a lot out of me." She wasn't willing to admit that a large part of her exhaustion was her anxiety over Ulmar's death and Moriarty's game.

"But not me?" he asked making her turn her eyes to him with a smile.

"Oh, Sherlock, you always exhaust me, but believe me when I say, it's the best sort of exhaustion," she laughed leaning her head against the window. She took a deep breath in still trying to wake up from sleeping so long.

The remainder of their ride was silent as Jen rested her eyes with her head leaning against the cool window. The cab came to a halt jerking her forward. She yawned before she turned and kissed Sherlock on the cheek.

"I'll see you later today," she told him before popping out of the car. She greeted John with a nod and smile before moving passed him to head inside the home him and Mary shared. "Mary," she called out before the blonde popped her head out from the kitchen.

"Jen," she said happily, "I wasn't expecting you."

"It was sort of unsuspected," she admitted stepping into kitchen before collapsing into one of the chairs in front of the round kitchen table.

"Oh?" Mary asked eyeing her. She seemed troubled by something, or at the very least, preoccupied by something. "What brought you along then?"

"I'm sort of panicking," she told her starting off speaking rather quickly as Mary set a cuppa in front of her. "Well, not panicking. Panicking is too heavy of a word. More like... slightly, only very slightly uneasy. Nothing alarming. I mean psychology still can't really tell us what purpose dreams really serve, so the fact that I had a very vivid sex dream about Sherlock really isn't that alarming, and it isn't the first time for that matter either. I just feel like my subconscious decided to throw a big fuck you in my face, and now I have no choice but to be all awkward when Sherlock and Mark are in the same room as me since you know I'm having sex with Mark and apparently in my dreams sex with Sherlock. So I'm not-"

"Whoa, stop," Mary laughed sitting down. "You are panicking. Is there a reason why? It's just a dream unless..." Mary raised her eyebrows and nodded trying to give Jen some sort of expression she wasn't understanding.

"Unless?" Jen asked.

"Unless you have a desire to have sex with-," Mary commented making Jen crinkle her nose before she cut her off.

"No, no, absolutely not. I have no desire whatsoever to-"

"What sort of sex was it?" Mary asked cutting her off willing to use this as a chance to point out the obvious. She had spent years with Jen to pick up enough psychology to play therapist.

"What?" Jen asked surprised by the question.

"Well, you know there's sort of just sex and then there's making love, fooling around, fucking-"

"Does it matter?" Jen questioned, but she knew the answer the that, and Mary knew that causing the woman to raise her eyebrows waiting for the answer. "It was very intimate, loving."

"Has it occurred to you, Jen, that that dream has nothing to do with sex, and everything to the intimacy you shared with Sherlock?" Jen sighed and let her head fall to the table.

"I'm dating, Mark," she whined.

"You are trying to take something and make it yours. You want a family, and with Mark, you get that right away. He's a filler for you, and you know that."

"I care about him."

"But you love, Sherlock."

"But he doesn't love me."

"How many times do you have to tell yourself a day to actually believe that?" Mary asked her causing Jen to look up at her. She seemed to be annoyed by the other woman's assessment.

"He's a sociopath; he can't feel to that extent," she replied coldly.

"Oh, Jen, he's a not a sociopath, and you know that. You've known it for a long time. Maybe at first, you believed that, but you can't read his mental and emotional state like other people. Overtime, though, you've realized it's simply not the case and never has been. Sherlock has made the choice to shut off his emotions; he was not born that way, yet he still struggles with keeping them in control like with you. He loves you, and you-"

"Ah!" she shouted putting her hands over her ears before curling her legs to her chest on the chair and hiding behind them. Mary rolled her eyes before prying her hands from Jen's ears all the while the woman drowned her out with random shouts of pain as if she was being tortured.

"You accuse Sherlock of being scared of love when maybe you're the problem!" Mary shouted over the screams. "You're so scared to love you refuse to see that he loves you, because if you accept he loves you, something has to be done, and you can't handle that! It terrifies you! Everyone you've ever loved in some way has something wrong with them! Your father, your mother, your brothers, your sister, Sherlock, John, Damon, Lucy, and most importantly, the one that makes you terrified to love Sherlock: Christopher." Jen stopped her insistent shouting as she stared up at Mary with a lump in her throat.

"You have no right," Jen snapped at her getting defensive. "Your fucking fiance is a danger magnet. His best friend is a sociopath-"

"Not a sociopath."

"The landlady used to run a cartel and his fiance is a lying, backstabbing former assassin who once tried to put a bullet in my brain. That's a start to a beautiful friendship," she growled, but Mary just shook her head not offended by her comments. She was lashing out as a defense mechanism.

"It's not about me, and you know that. Jen, you gave everything you had to Christopher. He helped you build a life, and in return, he destroyed it. There are alarming similarities between Chris and Sherlock, and that terrifies you so much that you refuse to admit that he loves you, because you can't deny that you love him anymore when you've already caved into those feelings when you though he was dead. Sherlock is difficult, childish man, but... he's not Christopher Black, and you know that. You've chosen Mark, because he is as far away from Chris as possible. He's a normal man and a father. He symbolizes everything Christopher isn't, and you hoped it would help. You hoped you could love him to heal the wounds that man left, but guess what you're attracted to brilliant, emotionally stunted eccentric men. Sherlock loves you, and you love him, and you have to accept that." Jen shook her head and stood.

"I've got to go," she said slipping on her jacket.

"Oh?" Mary asked.

"Yeah," she replied. "I'm having lunch with my boyfriend." Though, of course, that wasn't true. She just wanted out of the conversation. Mary sighed and rolled her eyes as Jen left. Her subconscious was telling her the obvious, but her denial was becoming completely aggravating. It couldn't go on any longer without one of two things happen: they both self-implode or they both cave and start a sudden but illicit affair. Mary was hoping on the latter.

* * *

"Morning," John yawned getting in the cab after Jen passed him with a smile and a 'morning.' "What have we got?" he asked shutting the door.

"Murderer placed the body in the middle of Queen Mary's Gardens," Sherlock told him, but still, his all wasn't in the case. He shouldn't be taking a case when he had Ulmar's death to investigate, Moriarty's game to play, and Peter's records to go burning through.

"Ah, pleasant," John said happily not noticing his friends mood, but Sherlock fell silent forcing John to realize something was wrong. "You and Jen have a row or something. Usually you're jumping out of your seat for a murder."

"It's nothing of importance," Sherlock answered, but of course, he didn't mean it, and John wasn't about to let it go that quickly.

"Is it the case? Or the situation with Peter? Or..."

"It's nothing," Sherlock repeated.

"So something to do with Jen then," he mused able to tell the signs of when it was a Jen problem. He always seemed more warn down when the problem involved her.

"It's nothing," Sherlock snapped, but John was still going to pry.

"Look, I understand that it's hard to live with a woman you love when you have Mark there, and-"

"What if Moriarty intends to have her killed, destroyed in the way I was?" Sherlock asked him finally letting Watson know his burden as his guess was far off from the actual reason. He had been thinking about the idea for the last few days.

"Why would he do that?" John asked.

"Because she killed one of his employees," Sherlock began speaking at a rapid pace allowing his worry to take over his logic, "because she prevented Peter from amounting to the serial killer he wanted, because she had ruined his plans countless times, and if that isn't reason enough, she is connected to me. What if he knew I would survive the fall? What if he knew that and set up a plan to win even in death? Moriarty knows that I love her, and he would use that against me. He would destroy her to get to me and right now, I'm starting to think that he's going to win. All I have is speculation, and as we get further and further along, I'm starting to think he planned this, all of it. He intended me to survive the fall; he intended for it to cause a rift in the relationship between Jen and I; he intended me to put every little piece together because in the end, he knows I remain at a complete loss at how to help her. I have never felt more like a failure than I have now; I'm failing her, and I fear there is no out this time." Silence held thick in the cab as John stared at his friend in complete awe of him. Never had Sherlock shared his, well, his feelings with John nor shared his fears of failure. In fact, John was sure, up until that moment, that Sherlock never doubted himself; he was a brilliantly arrogant man, who never let others see the cracks that made him human, yet here he was, looking more than human admitting to his faults and his emotions. However, John focused on a singular admittance in his speak.

"You love her," John mused with a hint of a smile.

"What? Shut up," Sherlock snapped making John laugh.

"Well, it's just, you've never said it aloud," John admitted.

"You're missing the point," Sherlock shouted at him. "What if she is killed because of me!?"

"Sherlock, you need to calm down," John told him as Sherlock attempted to find the lid for these worries. "Everything will work out. You're clever, the cleverest man I know and Jen's clever, and if that's not enough, we have allies. We have Mycroft, Robbie, Damon, Shadow, and a dozen other people who would rather die than watch Jen get hurt."

"I can't depend on them," he ground out, and John shook his head.

"All you can do is wait and prevent," John told him. Sherlock turned his head back to the window wishing to end this conversation. His worries were best left to his own mind, where he can end them. The cab came to a halt in front of the currently closed section of the park allowing them both to get out of the cramped space of the cab and out into the fresh air.

"Glad you're here," Lestrade told them as he walked them through the gardens. He looked more worn down than usually, not a good sign. "It's gruesome."

"Aren't they all?" John asked with a frown wondering what could possibly worse about this one.

"Not like this," Lestrade replied as they walked farther into the gardens until there on the path a body blocked the pathway.

"Jesus Christ," John muttered. The body laid chopped into several rather neat pieces. All the fingers and toes were cut off separate as were any place there was a joint along the arms and legs. The jaw was mostly severed from the head. Each part of the body was marked up what looked to be drawings made with a scalpel or something smaller. They were seemingly random drawings. It was all so familiar.

"John, how did the victim die?" Sherlock asked quickly though he knew the answer. John approached and leaned down to looked at the body, but there wasn't much he could tell given the bodies state.

"I uh… I think it was-"

"Blood loss," Sherlock finished knowing the doctor would find nothing. "The body was strung up in a vacant building where the murderer began their work carving into the victim like they were canvas. The blood that tricked out of them would have been spilled out into a tub of some sort below. The whole while the victim is conscious screaming; they only die when their body goes into shock or from exsanguination, whichever comes first.

"That's… barbaric," John replied standing wanting to throw up his breakfast. "Jesus," he muttered running his fingers through his hair. "They were alive the whole time? Who would do that?" He had seen a lot in the way of terrible deaths and the human capacity to be cruel and sadistic, but this topped all of those experiences.

"Peter Verown, the Carver," Sherlock told him sure that this was the work of Jen's brother. His MO was so exact, and it just couldn't be replicated; he wasn't even remotely surprised for the relapse. It was bound to happen.

"You think it's him again?" Lestrade asked aware of the recently released serial killer. Everyone knew the Carver's name; he scared the hell out of England for years, and when they found out he was just a teenager, it scared people even more.

"Exactly the same as before," Sherlock turned on his heels knowing he needed to confront Peter and Jen about this first. He needed to hear the lie from Peter, and the defense that would surely come from Jen.

* * *

"Where were you last night?" Sherlock asked slamming the door to the flat open making Jen jump slightly surprised to see him again so soon; John followed after him. She and Peter were sitting together watching telly as they always did on Sundays.

"I was sleeping," Jen told him with a frown wondering what he could possibly want with her whereabouts.

"Not you," he told her letting his eyes settle on Peter.

"I was here," he told him obviously. "You know that, you were up all night." It wasn't a surprise that Peter had been eavesdropping again even if it was just to know that Sherlock hadn't slept the previous night.

"What's this about?" Jen asked watching him with a frown looking between the two men. She was sure it was too soon for Peter to be dipping back in to the world he once lived in.

"Someone was killed last night-" John told her gently, but she cut him off ready to defend Peter.

"Just because Peter was a serial killer doesn't mean-"

"It matched his MO perfectly," Sherlock told her throwing a file filled with crime scene photos onto the table. Jen flipped open the file and started leafing through the sickening scene. A carved up body laid dismembered in the middle of a very public place; it screamed the Carver all over it. She felt her lungs compress knowing Sherlock was right; he had started again.

"You know I wouldn't, Jenma," he said standing in a flurry fearing that his sister would listen to Sherlock. He was playing with them all, and she knew that immediately. She knew this was him; she knew this would happen, and she was more disappointed in herself than him.

"You'll be called into questioning," Sherlock told him. "You just get out, and these murders start again. Are you an idiot?" The doorbell rang. "That'll be Lestrade," he said turning toward the door.

"Swear to me!" she shouted as soon as Sherlock and John was gone. She grabbed Peter and threw him into a wall in front of her. "Swear to me you aren't the one doing these killings!" She was shaking, and he knew he could lie to her, but he didn't wish to lie to her even if she hated him for it, but he knew she wouldn't.

"I can't," he told her honestly. She felt tears start to burn her eyes knowing that nothing had changed. He was still a serial killer, and she was still going to try and protect him from Sherlock's investigation. She would have to put herself between the man she loved and the brother she had always cared for.

"You need an alibi," she told him with a sigh letting him go ready to make herself Sherlock's enemy. "You were with me and Damon at the fighting ring. Damon will vouch for anything I say, but Sherlock will attempt to disprove that. I'm sure of it. Another murder needs to occur while you're being questioned.

"How?" he asked her innocently, but he knew the answer, and he delighted in. His sister would once again jump the line from angel to demon without a care. It was easy to jump over, but it was nearly impossible to return. "I can't be two places at once."

"I know your MO, Peter," she told him. She sounded worn down already from what she thought she had to do. "Just tell me the name of your next victim, and I'll do the rest."

"Thanks, Jenma," he told her with a smile not at all bothered that his sister would go back to killing for him. "Her name is Katherine Smith," he told her taking a small piece of paper out of his back pocket and handing it to her. Wearily, she took it and slipped it in her own jean pocket as Lestrade entered to read Peter his rights. He smiled at her as he was lead out in handcuffs.

* * *

You would think after killing the number of people she had, it would have been easier, but it was worse to go back. It was hell, and somewhere between finding the next victim and killing them, she blacked out. It was a typical case of suppressed memory; she didn't want to remember it, so she wouldn't.

She laid in the middle of a graveyard covered in blood having finished what she had to do for her brother. She held her phone to her ear; it was well past midnight, but she needed someone to talk to. Specifically, she needed him to help her cover what she did.

"Hello?" Damon answered.

"Damon," she cried, "I need you here."

"Where are you?" he asked her worried but without hesitation. He would be there in an instance.

"Saint Mary's Cemetery," she told him. "Bring a change of clothes." She snapped her phone shut and continued laying against the cold dirt. The ground underneath her was solid, yet it had the feel of hollow ground, a feeling that could be described. She yearned to be six feet below with the corpses for what she did, but she did it for her family. The blood on her clothes was starting to dry but still remained sticky allowing Sherlock's favorite green sweater to cling to her. It was now more of a sick dark red color than the original green.

"Lupa, what happened?" Damon asked her with a whisper as he leaned down to her.

"Peter," she choked back her words, but Damon knew without her telling him. He gingerly helped her up before handing her the new set clothes. She changed in the cemetery not wishing to get a single drop of evidence in his car. He had enough crimes pinned on him without needing manslaughter added on the list.

"Lupa, you can't protect him; it nearly destroyed you last time," he told her as she started tearing up the clothes and slowly burning them to nothing but ash. She paused at the green sweater looking at and feeling the fabric between her hands before she shook her head and starting burning Sherlock's favorite sweater. If she had to protect Peter, she would have to go against Sherlock. She couldn't hold onto the both of them; she had to choose.

"What choice do I have, Damon?" she asked him quietly as she watched it go up in flames. "He's my brother."

"He's your demise," he told her gently trying not push her. This was a gentle topic for her.

"Well, you just know everything, don't you?!" she snapped at him; his gentleness did little to help. "At least, I do something from my brother; you let your own sister rot in Rampton." His whole body went rigid at her words, and she immediately regretted them. "I'm so sorry, Damon. I don't know what that was about," she told him trying to shake her head clear

"I think you need to rest, Lupa," he told her as she nodded slowly. He grabbed the last piece of clothing to burn: Moriarty's jacket.

"Not that!" she shouted snatching the jacket it from him. "Take it to your cleaner?" Damon furrowed his eyebrows before he stared at the jacket in his hands. What so special about this jacket?

"Let's um…," he gripped the jacket. "Let's get you back to Baker Street."

"Yeah," she said putting her hand to her head before heading toward the car with Damon. She just wanted to head home; she just wanted to

* * *

"Sir?" Donovan said popping her head into the interrogation room. Peter sat calmly speaking to the Detective Inspector not even requesting a lawyer. He was arrogant in his ways; he always had been. "We've got another."

"What do you mean you've got another?" Sherlock demanded whipping around to Sally.

"There's another body; you've got the wrong man," Donovan replied simply.

"I don't have the wrong man," Sherlock snapped at her in irritation. "He is The Carver; these murders are The Carver."

"A copycat maybe," Lestrade suggested making Sherlock give him a look of disgust.

"No!" Sherlock shouted slamming his hands in front of Peter. "It's too perfect! How!? How can someone be killed with you right here!?"

"I didn't do it, Mr. Holmes," Peter told him with a gentle smile. He had maintained his innocence all through the interrogation, and he was playing it right though Sherlock could see the gleam of mischievous in his eyes as if he was mocking him.

"Sherlock, let's head to the body," Lestrade suggested trying to stop Sherlock from attacking their suspect. Sherlock gave him an irked look before turning to follow Lestrade to the new crime scene.

* * *

"I know this is you," Sherlock told him as they headed back to Baker Street together; he would be keeping all eyes on him until he had the proof he needed. "I don't know how, but there's no other evidence."

"Your facts aren't adding up," Peter replied arrogantly. "Isn't it you who always says that you're matching some of the facts to fit your conclusion? Well, your facts are not fitting your conclusion, Mr. Holmes. You're being blinded by sentiment."

"Sentiment?" Sherlock hissed. "I'm not a sentimental fool, Verown. I understand this fact is not fitting my consensus that you are the murderer, but I also understand that you are clever, and you got away with killing people for four years despite living in a small town with few suspects. I will not rule you out, and I will be watching every chance I get."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, I learned my lesson last time," he informed with a growing smile. "If I'm going to kill you, well, it has to be done quick, efficiently, and quite suddenly." The cab came to a halt, and Peter threw the door open to head upstairs were his sister was likely waiting.

"Morning, Jenma," Peter said cheerfully as she sat at the piano and stared out the window. She said nothing to him as he made his way into the kitchen to look for something to eat. Her eyes were glossed over as if she was in a completely different reality.

"Your brother was released of his charges," Sherlock told her in annoyance as he threw himself in his chair, but she didn't react to that much either. He frowned and turned to her. "Ginny?" he questioned with a frown.

"What?" she asked quietly. Her eyes turned to him, and she seemed a hundred miles away, and if he tried to pull her back, he doubt he would succeed.

"What…" Should he ask what was wrong? Should he bother? She seemed like she in the sort of state that he didn't want to bother with. He changed the subject to a more pleasant conversation. "Are you staying here for Christmas?"

"Of course," she told him with a gentle smile, but her all wasn't in it. "Are we having a Christmas party again? The last one we had was interrupted by Irene."

"If you'd like I suppose, though the flat is getting a bit small as we grow in numbers. It's exhausting," he told her making her laugh.

"I agree, but I like our friends," she replied. "How was the crime scene this morning? Was it that murder you hoped for?" He frowned staring at her slightly perplex. She had watched him come in and have Peter arrested.

"Ginny… that was yesterday. Remember? Peter was arrested under suspicion," Sherlock reminded her. She stared at the wall blinking slowly.

"I... yes," she muttered recalling a few patches missing that day but recalling Sherlock coming in and having Peter arrested. "Sorry… I… I must be tired."

"You can go nap in my room," he told her, but he wasn't sure exhaustion would cause her mind to forget something like that. She nodded as she slowly stood.

"I think I will," she muttered before disappearing into his room. The door shut gently leaving Sherlock to feel a lump in his throat as his worry increased.

* * *

A/N: I hurt all over. Ugh. Snowboarding accident, because I'm an idiot. Anyway, so much going on in this chapter! And I've put another road block in the way of their relationship... don't hurt me. It was necessary. Sorry for any mistakes, it's a miracle I got this done on time! Any outstanding ones feel free to point out. Another quick mention, we will continue seeing blank patches of certain events in chapters following this. It will be covered at a certain point; it's not just missing because I was lazy.

Thanks to reviewers: hannahhobnob, zare . downey . okumura, Didi La Maniac, and short-skirtblue scarf. I will see everyone next weekend, and review please!


	10. Christmas

Five more murders took place keeping the whole of London on edge, but as Christmas floated around, it seemed to put everyone in a cheery mood. Even Sherlock, who had been in something of a agitated state, seemed a bit happier on Christmas as all of their new and old friends gathered in the flat. It was a bit crowded with all of them. At first, it was just Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Jen, Sherlock, John, Molly, and Damon. Now it was them plus Mark and Lucy, Myra, Jamie, Mary, Peter, and Molly's fiancé, Tom. Dear Lord, there was beginning to get a lot of them.

Jen sat next to the fire remaining rather quite; she seemed to have withdrawn since the murders had started, and it didn't go passed Sherlock's notice. Yet, how was he supposed to ask about them if they upset her? He had no doubt it was her brother doing the killings, and he had no doubt Jen knew with her increasingly cold personality especially toward him as of late. She seemed to be attempting to drift away in an effort to keep a firm grip on her brother but in turn loosing her grip on her sanity. She hadn't slept in over a week, yet she had only spoken in single syllables since. Mark had tried talking to her, but she shooed him away now remaining alone next to the fire.

Sherlock watched her from the corner of his eye as she remained slumped in her chair before, after everyone had arrived, he stood from his chair crossing the room to stand in front of her until she looked up at him with a slight, chap-lipped smile. She looked like she was suffering from some sort of severe ailment worrying him. The shadows under her eyes contrasted deeply with her increasingly pale skin as her hair remained untamed giving her a disheveled look. She was loosing weight rapidly, again, and her hole body was constantly vibrating as if she was cold even when next to the fire.

"What is it?" she asked with a scratchy voice that just didn't sound even remotely like her.

"I want to give you your gift," he replied letting his eyes flit over her quickly trying to find a shade of health in her. His only conclusion was that Peter was adversely killing her, and she, herself, seemed completely unaware of the difference frustrating him.

"Oh," she muttered flatly, "go on then." He nodded to the other end of the room where a green wrapped box sat on one of the end tables near John. She eyed it wearily all the way across the room. "Oh… well, I haven't finished your gift yet... I've been... distracted," she murmured quietly before handing him a sketchbook. "I'll finished it when I have time, but it Christmas..." He took the notebook from her giving her a curious look. "Open it," she encouraged. He opened to the first page that it was essentially a comic book with four panels on each page. Each box led into the story of their lives and how they were intertwined. "It goes up until the Fall," she told him, "but I think... I'll continue it when I..." He was skimming the boxes and paused to look up at her.

"It has your thoughts," he told her before he began to read aloud one of thought boxes. "Sherlock Holmes always had my attention in school; he was brilliant, and if you didn't know it, you were an idiot." He smiled fondly before looking up at her.

"I know," she told him with a nod. "If I wrote it out, as it had happened, it wouldn't matter. Every memory is ingrained in your mind, but my thoughts aren't, and I think… I think it speaks louder to have my thoughts."

"Thank you, Ginny," he told her sincerely kissing her cheek gently.

"Help me," she breathed into his ear before she pulled away with a smile.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked her gripping her shoulders and holding her at arms length.

"I didn't say anything," she told him with a tilt of her head as she furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"No, you said something," he frowned eyeing her carefully. "You said help me."

"No, I didn't," she with a slight laugh shaking her head. "You're losing your mind, Sherlock. What a shame too," she teased. He stared at her with a frown before he took her hand and led her to the rather large gift. She sighed before she reached out her hand gently touching the red bow with her fingertips.

"It's from all of us as well as the Holmes family," John told her standing at her side wanting to properly see her face brighten. "Sherlock's idea though."

"Rather thoughtful actually," Damon admitted giving Sherlock a teasing grin. The two got on rather well despite being on opposite sides of the law.

"I'm surprised you actually wrapped it," she teased him a little as well.

"Har, har," he replied rolling his eyes.

"Actually, I wrapped it, dear," Mrs. Hudson told her with a smile before Jen ripped off the green wrapping paper with a laugh allowing the white box underneath to fall apart revealing a rather beautiful Victorian doll's house.

"You said you always wanted one," he shrugged as it really didn't matter, but it did matter. The Victorian doll's house was everything she ever wanted as a child. It was the mother she lost, and the father she wanted. It was the picture perfect family with the white picket fence. It was the dreams she let slip through her fingers as she put everyone else first, and it was the love and approval she so desperately sought. She did not seek the love of a single man, but the love of a family, a bond that should have tested the sands of time. It was the idea that her brother could love her without manipulating her, and her sister could love her without resentment. It was the wish that her mother never abandoned her, and her father had not given up and had cared for her as a father should. It was the idea of a loving, fond childhood that she pictured in her mind but could never have herself. It was the emotions she kept to herself for the sake of her brother, sister, and father, and it was the gate that let those become real once again. It flooded her with scents, touch, memory of things she loved and longed for, and it found her small sensitive spot and pushed causing her to let out a shaky breath letting tears fall to her face before she became too weak and collapsed to her knees. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked in panic staring at the girl sobbing with her head in her hands before looking around the room not sure what to do as John knelt down to rub her back and soothe her.

"N-no," Jen stuttered looking at him through tear soaked eyes. "No, Sherlock. It's...," she looked at the doll's house trying to find the word, "sentimental, and... um..." she paused to take another shaky breath letting a few more tears fall, "it's so much more than you know, and I don't know if I can thank you enough." She slowly stood with John's help. "You know you're really good at this whole making me cry thing," she laughed trying to wipe the tears as a brightness that had been missing lit up her face.

"Sorry?" he remarked unsure about the appropriateness of the remark.

"Don't be," she told him before throwing her arms around his neck. He pulled her close putting his hands on the small of her back and resting his head gently on hers. "Help me," she breathed into him.

"You said it again," he snapped pulling from her and holding her in front of him. He was not imaging it; she was asking him for help. Why was she denying it?

"What?" she questioned still confused on what he was talking about.

"You said help me again," he told her.

"No, I didn't," she replied furrowing her eyebrows. "Have you been drinking?"

"It's not funny, Ginny," he informed her.

"No, I don't think so either. My father was a boozer, so you should really take it easy with the alcohol, Sherlock," she replied seriously. He opened his mouth to give her a sharp reply when Mary called at him from the kitchen. He gave her one last curious look before he headed to the kitchen to speak with Mary.

"You really know how to cheer her up," Mary smiled leaning against the counter to speak with him. He paused in front of her. "She seemed so down when John and I arrived, and you seemed to cheer her right up. Did she forgive you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said with a nod. "She found out that I was just trying to help her, and I don't understand. I'm not closer to the truth, yet she forgave me."

"It was the gesture, Sherlock," Mary told him being one of the biggest pushers of their relationship lately. "She has Borderline Personality Disorder, remember? The fact someone is willing to fight like you have for her is literally out of her understanding, so to see you do that is nothing short of a miracle to her."

"She gave me a book," Sherlock told Mary flipping through the book she had drawn him. "She said it has her thoughts in it." Mary smiled fondly at him.

"She's given you something precious, Sherlock," Mary replied, "and from the look on her face, that dolls' house meant a lot to her too."

"Hm," he answered thinking about what Mary said and about Jen, "she doesn't regret much in her life, but one of the things that weigh the heaviest on her is her lack of childhood. It's something she can never get back." Mary looked back in the living room to see Jen pointing out different things in the house to Lucy; the woman's face was lit up in a way Mary hadn't seen a while. Mary's eyes drifted to Sherlock to see him staring at Jen with such a fondness that it was nearly heartbreaking. His eyes were always steeled in the presence of others; he didn't seem to understand emotions, and yet, there he was, in front of Mary, looking at her in such a way that the word love could only wish to be used to describe how he was staring at her. But it seemed so much more than that; John loved Mary, and yet, he, nor anyone, had ever looked at her or anyone she knew like Sherlock looked at Ginevra, like his very person depended on her breath, her voice, her, right down to the last detail to the point where it was likely excruciating. This man, this man who didn't seek to feel, who didn't seek to know emotion, was privileged and tortured with what this woman did to him. Mary both pitied and envied him.

"I wish someone would look at me the way you do her," Mary spoke aloud pulling his gaze from her to look at her with a confused expression. "The way you look at her…," Mary shook her head before she shoved him rather roughly into the room next to Jen.

He looked back to Mary, who gave him thumbs up. Sherlock looked down at her lingering just a little before he spoke. "You like it then?" he asked.

"I love it," she told him before her eyes went up to him; she patted the place on the floor next to her. Lucy had went skipping off to her father, who was drinking a little too much on the couch having a conversation with Lestrade. Sherlock sat on the floor next to her. "Oh, Sherlock," she muttered reaching out a hand to admire the craftsmanship. "It's not just a doll's house; this is an antique."

"Go on," he encouraged knowing she could identify the maker and the year. She stared at it for a moment looking between the pieces.

"German," she eyed, "cica… 1895. Dear lord, this is a Moritz Gottschalk and the furniture is… Schneegas. This must have cost a fortune."

"You deserve it," Sherlock assured her.

"Do I?" she asked curiously gingerly touching the small kitchen utensils. "My mother always told me that one day she'd have enough money to give me a dolls' house," she told him gently. "Then she left, and any spare money we had was used to keep the house."

"What about the money that Peter got from Moriarty?" he asked. She shrugged.

"I never saw it," she replied. She gently shut the house before she turned to him. "Sometimes, I feel like you don't listen to me, but then, you surprise me by doing things like this." She paused and looked at the house. "Don't you get tired of me?" she laughed.

"No," he replied simply making her grin.

"Well, I'm glad," she smiled. "I imagine we all look so insignificantly stupid to you. Sometimes I fear that's what you think about me."

"You?" he asked her. "Don't be so dense, Ginny. If I thought you insignificantly stupid, I would have grown bored of you long ago."

"Maybe you're becoming sentimental in your old age," she laughed shoving him ever so slightly.

"If I'm old, so are you. We were born the same year," he reminded her.

"I'm three months younger than you," she told him making him scoff.

"Three months younger, but biologically with all the drugs you've put into your system-"

"Says the cocaine addict," she argued.

"Former cocaine addict, and I was never addicted to anything else. I also maintain a normal sleep pattern through the years. Also, your mental health is not as good as mine thereby making you biologically older."

"I have sex," she said with a smile. "Studies have shown people who have protected sex regularly are less stressful, happier, and overall healthier."

"Those studies are bias to increase the copulation of the human population to increase breeding," he replied making her snort.

"Okay," she replied sarcastically with a laugh before she leaned back and balanced on the balls of her hands. She pushed her legs out in front of her. "I've missed these Christmas parties; we didn't bother after you crushed us all with your fake suicide." There was a slight pained look on his face that would go unnoticed by most but not Jen. "You know I forgive you; I more than forgive you; I'm so grateful to you." She winced slightly as she looked around; she could see Mark glowering at them at the corner of his eye. "Do you want to go for a walk? All these people are exhausting me." He stood and looked down at her waiting for her to stand. She stood and patted her leg gently causing Toby to run out from under the piano to her. Jen grabbed the leash before her and Sherlock made the attempt to slip out of the flat unnoticed.

"You're still hyper-empathic then?" he asked causing her to give him a weary smile telling him that it was wearing her thin. They walked slowly down the street with Jen holding Toby's leash. It was chilly out but not unbearable.

"It's hard being with Mark sometimes," she admitted. "He's so… normal, and sometimes his emotions wipe off on me, and… it… it exhausts me. Mark is great; he's supportive and kind, and he loves me. You know?"

"Loves a chemical defect," he told her, and he still meant it and always would, but lately, he was unsure if the defect could properly be overcome. Jen chuckled breaking his thoughts.

"I know, but… I don't love him, and I don't know why," she said with a deep frown. "I want to, but… God, he wears me down. You and I were talking for two seconds, and I could feel myself growing envious and angry and… I realized it was coming from him. He's obsessively jealous of you of all people."

"It's a primal instinct," Sherlock informed her not defending Mark but rather showing off. "You're living with a single male, whom you have in the past declared to have emotional attachment to. I'm on his territory so to speak."

"We're not animals, Sherlock," she replied with a slight smile.

"Some more evolved than others," Sherlock quipped back making her smile again. "I'm more concerned about your brother. Well, concerned isn't the right word. Amused perhaps? Irritated?"

"You still think he's killing people again?" she asked knowing he wouldn't give up his initial accusations. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with him attempting to get a conviction, and Peter attempting to slip by him to continue is scheming.

"You don't?" he asked watching her carefully.

"Evidence tells you otherwise," she replied. Her left hand twitched ever so slightly telling him everything he needed to know. She was lying to him, and he knew that, but he also knew her. He could not touch that topic; he could not address the obvious evidence that was right in front of him, not until she was ready to see that Peter had to be put away again, and that it was for the best. It would have to wait. Peter had to do something so atrocious that even Jen wouldn't want to protect him any longer, and Sherlock knew it was bound to happen.

"Did you see a doctor?" he asked her changing the topic. "About the blackouts?"

"Stress, they said," she replied having gone not long after his request. "Said I don't cope well causing my mind to shut down when I'm stressed out. Told me to see a therapist; I laughed."

"You would end up having the therapist breaking down in front of you having the upper hand on them," Sherlock said with a slight laugh. "You are far more clever than they are." She grinned before she bumped him lightly with her hip.

"You've been very kind to me lately. Are you worried about James?" she asked him not oblivious to his attempts. "Or are you worried I'll sink into depression again?"

"Both," he told her, "and the recognition that I'm worried isn't helping things. It's fogging my mind." The situations surrounding Jen was thickening and piling on top of him leaving him drowning, and it was mixing with his emotions that were pushing forward surprising him in the worst way possible at the most inconvenient times.

"Oh a little fog in your mind is nothing," she tisked. "You'll figure things out. I mean James is clever, but you'll figure out what he was up to."

"What if he's right, and I can't stop it?" he asked her.

"Then reverse it," she told him simply. He stared at her blankly as if he was trying to tell her it simply wasn't so easy. "Oh come on. You set up this whole little game, so you could tear down his web, and he had no idea. Child's play." She paused. "It's odd… to see you doubting yourself."

"I'm not doubting I'll figure it out, but I'm also aware of the collateral damage if I don't approach this with caution," he replied annoyed with her assessment.

"There's nothing wrong with doubt; it makes you very human, Sherlock," she quipped back at his agitation. He didn't seem any less pleased by her answer. "I doubt myself in everything, but you know, I keep going anyways, and sometimes those doubts right, and I am prepared for that, and sometimes they're wrong, and I rejoice in that. Hope for the best, but prepare for the worst."

"The worst?" he questioned looking down at her. "The worst is you dying, Ginny, and I can't prepare for that."

"Are you worried about me?" she teased him swinging her hip into him again.

"Well, if you weren't so idiotically helpless," he answered making her laugh. She sighed and shook her head knowing this conversation was destined to continue down a more morbid route if they continued, so it was time to go back to the place she was calling home.

"I missed you," she told him with a playful smile, "but it's time to go back to the flat; I'm sure Mark's having a fit. Men are such babies." They turned and continued down the street till they came back to the flat where Lucy was crying, and Peter was being restrained by Lestrade. "What the hell happened?" Jen asked looked between the guests.

"Nothing," Peter hissed throwing Lestrade off him.

"Your brother threatened my daughter," Mark told her causing her to turn her eyes to Peter, who was straightening his clothes out.

"Peter?" she questioned waiting for the truth.

"Just look at her Jenma," he snapped gesturing to the girl, who was cowering behind her father holding her left hand in her right for support. It looked broken or at the very least, sprained. "When we were her age-"

"Come here," she growled grabbing his wrist and pulling him into the hall slamming the door behind her. She didn't want to lecture him; he was a full grown man, but if he wanted to act like a vicious little child, then God help her, she would treat him like one. "What the hell are you doing!?"

"She's insignificant and innocent," he sneered like it was a disease raging through Lucy, and that needed to be fixed.

"She's a child, Peter!" she argued at him. It was one thing to attack adults, but it was a completely different level of sadistic to attack a child, who provoke him in no way.

"When I was her age-" he started, but Jen cut him off not wanting to hear his excuses.

"When we were her age, mum had left us. Robbie was constantly gone; dad was slowly descending into madness. Lucy has been through a lot; her mum was murdered, and she was held captive, and that makes her better than us. We fell apart; we crashed as low as you can, and she holds it together better than any of us did."

"We didn't crashed; we soared," he told her a sort of happiness, excitement, and utter madness brimming in his eyes. He gripped her shoulders tight as he practically loomed over her. "Humanity is a sick disease that should be put down; they feared us, and we could have had them begging on their knees if we so desired."

"Stop it," she demanded not wanting to play games with him today or ever. It made her stomach churn to see him like this, see him outside of his carefully crafted facade of slight sanity. His madness was always, in some way, carefully hidden, and very rarely did it fully shine through in full force.

"Why?" he laughed. "Why should I stop when you know it is nothing more than the truth? We were Gods."

"You need to get a grip on your sanity," she snapped throwing his hands off her. "You're losing it, and you're false platform will become transparent once again causing you to crash and burn, and I can't watch that happen… not again, Peter. I love you too much."

"You love me," he spat in disgust, "yet you defend that creature and reprimand me! Me!" he shouted at her leaning on the railing.

"I love her too," she replied calmly. "I am capable of loving more than one person, Peter; I am human." She rubbed her forehead before looking back to the door to the flat. "Come inside when you've cooled down."

"Capable of loving more than one person," Peter hissed as she shut the door behind her to enter the flat. His hands clutch strengthened on the railing. "I can change that." His eyes went to the door of 221B. "I can change that," he uttered with a smile before turning to go back into the flat.

* * *

A/N: Whoa, so hey, we got to see a little uninhibited Peter; that was Peter for just a brief second. That was one hundred percent, not playing around, psychopath The Carver. We'll see more of him later, so that'll be fun.

Thanks to Reviewers: TinkerbellxO, Cezera101, a mystery guest reviewer, hannahhobnob, flaming-amber, Akira Darkness, and zare . downey . okumura. I'll see you all next Saturday! Review please!


	11. You Can't Have Your Cake And Eat It Too

Jen pushed the door open just a crack to peek inside the room she was slowly becoming more familiar with. Sherlock was sound asleep in his bed and part of her wanted to leave him as is as it was such a rare thing to see the man not wound up like a rabbit, but she had other plans for him that required him to be awake. For now, she decided she wanted her cake and eat it, too, so she would not push Sherlock away nor would she push her brother away. She wanted both, so for now, she would have both, which is what led today. It was her sign of temporary surrender. So, not so silently, Jen slammed the door open; he didn't even twitch forcing her to her next action.

"Wake up!" Jen shouted jumping on Sherlock. He awoke with a start likely preparing for a fight if need be before he blinked several times and looked at Jen processing the woman's face and the smile on her face. He pushed her with ease causing her to fall on the floor with an oomph.

"Go away, Ginny," he muttered turning over and covering his head with the blanket not quite willing to enter back in the waking world if there was nothing for it to offer him.

"Nope," she replied jumping on him again forcing him to be the one to let out a oomph this time. "Know why?" He sighed and threw the blankets off his head to look at her knowing it would now be impossible to fall back asleep.

"Why?" he asked, but it sounded like he was mocking her as he was just humoring her.

"Because it's the 6th," she told him with a grin as if that was all he needed to know, and as much as he tried to erase the useless fact from his brain, the sixth was a day he wouldn't likely forget. "Which means-"

"I've managed to survive another full rotation around the sun," he replied bored before he pulled the blanket back over his head. She quickly pulled it off him in mock surprise; he stared up at her teasing look with bored eyes though secretly, he was a bit pleased at how happy she seemed.

"Sherlock! When did you learn that we rotate around the sun!?" she asked causing him to scoff and turn pushing her onto the floor again; she fell rather clumsily with a thunk making him smile in satisfaction. "But I made breakfast," she said quite pitifully as she put her chin on the bed and begged like a dog, so that they were face to face as she tried to impose guilt on him. It wasn't working.

"So you're trying to poison me on my birthday?" he asked making her scowl at him. Though to be fair, poison was quite the accurate description of her cooking.

"I'll have you know it's delicious!" she defended, and it was.

"Which tells me you didn't cook it," he replied. She huffed irritated he had seen through her, and of course, he did. He was Sherlock Holmes for God's sake.

"Fine, Mary and John are out in the kitchen, and they… assisted me," she answered. Sherlock paused for a minute before he sat up and looked around his room realizing the sun was actually quite bright. There were times when he had less to do that he may allow himself to sleep late, but with they way things were stacking up, he had been sleeping less. So seeing the sun actually up before him was a bit alarming.

"Why did I sleep so long, Ginny?" he asked her making her grin sheepishly.

"I drugged your tea last night," she mumbled before she quickly went to defend herself. "It was the only way I could keep you from getting up too early…. Happy birthday." She hid half behind his mattress, but it was clear she was trying to hide her grin.

"You drugged my tea? How did you drug my tea? I would have noticed," he argued now sitting on the edge of the bed with the sheet wrapped around him. Jen slowly stood straightening her purple jumper. Sherlock noticed the green one had been missing from her wardrobe for a few months now. The last time he had seen her wear it was when Peter was arrested, and that didn't escape his notice. It wasn't a coincidence; the universe was rarely so lazy.

"Well, last night, you asked me why the tea tasted funny," she told him quickly trying to avoid looking at him feeling just a bit guilty, "and I said, oh, it's a home brew. Well, it is a home brew; I use it when I don't want to take pills to fall asleep. It usually knocks me right out; you were surprisingly resistant. Rather annoying actually; I ended up giving you two cups. I do not recommend it; I could have killed you."

"I would have died on my birthday," he informed her.

"Like Shakespeare," she offered with a sloppy grin. "He is a genius of the written word; he are genius of your science."

"How kind of you, Ginny," he said only partially sarcastic as he stoog letting the blanket fall to the floor causing her to quickly clap her hands to her eyes like a child would when seeing something they know they shouldn't be.

"Sherlock, you are… naked," she said peeking through her hands to confirm this fact. She let out a giggle like a school girl. "Yes, yes, you're naked."

"Very observant; it seems you enjoy pointing out the obvious," he told her going to his closet to find today's clothing.

"Yes, well, you could have at least warned me," she remarked as she turned around to face the door away from him. She allowed her hand to slip back to her side as she focused on the door.

"Why? You've seen plenty of naked men in your life," he replied as he began to dress curious at her behavior. "It's nothing new."

"Nudity," Jen began considering the reason and how awkward it would be to explain. " Nudity is a concept created by man in an attempt to segregate us from animals, and yet, we still regularly participate in animal like rituals. Nudity doesn't bother me, however, that being said it also depends on the person. If say it was someone like Damon or John, who were standing in front of me without their clothes, it wouldn't phase me. However, those we find... aesthetically pleasing can make one uncomfortable as the concept of beauty is typically based on the question of how willing we are to breed with a person actually causing involuntary sexual arousal, which can make a situation awkward."

"So based on your assessment of what makes a person uncomfortable with nudity, you turned away due to potential arousal?" he asked her making her turn a slight shade of pink but shifted slightly before answering him honestly.

"Yes," she said obviously before she scoffed letting herself have a minor flashback to one of her more recent dreams causing her to feel her face heat up even more. "I don't need any more detailed dreams involving you and I going at it. Believe me." He paused as he began to pull on his shirt. Any more detailed dreams of them going at it... interesting. He shelved that small piece of information for further analyzing later. _  
_

"At least your assessment is sound," he replied, "even if your lack of control over your hormones is mildly disappointing."

"Mildly disappointing, or increasingly intriguing?" she teased him before continuing the topic at hand. "I heavily studied human sexuality in university."

"And I'm sure I'm just a thrilling case to you," he replied, and although he was sure he was, he was slightly irked if she had been focusing more on his sexuality than any other part of his mind. There were some many better things to study.

"No, not really," she told him with a shrug hadn't need much time to analyze it. "You're easy. It's not that you're straight or gay. You just simply don't have time for any of that; your mind is so filled with thoughts and ideas that you don't have time to think about sex or even what you're interested in. With a few select questions involving your adolescence when your hormones fog your mind beyond your control, I could tell you your sexuality better than you could. That being said if I had to guess… I would say male and female would matter little, and it really depends on them as people."

"Since those days, I have pitied doctors from my heart," she quoted. "What does the lovely flush in a beauty's cheek mean to a doctor but a "break" that ripples above some deadly disease? Are not all her visible charms sown thick with what are to him the signs and symbols of hidden decay? Does he ever see her beauty at all, or doesn't he simply view her professionally, and comment upon her unwholesome condition all to himself? And doesn't he sometimes wonder whether he has gained most or lost most by learning his trade?" She paused.

"Mark Twain," he mused. She nodded.

"Most people base their want for sex on superficial traits, but I imagine a body is just a body to you," she told him. "You've lost the romance and beauty. In this case, it was a worthy trade."

"You think so?" he asked her curiously.

"Sex is... common. If it wasn't, humanity would not have problems with overpopulation," she answered. "What you have is a gift. It's rare, and the world would be a dimmer place without it."

"I would say you've thought about this a lot," Sherlock told her entertained with her. He was tucking his shirt in. She let out a half chuckle.

"I've had a lot of spare time staring at walls the last two years," she answered with a lopsided smile. "You think about random things like what was Sherlock Holmes's sexuality, you know?"

"Pansexual," he told her surprising her.

"Hm?" she mused.

"Your sexuality," he replied having given it perhaps a small bit of time.

"Oh?" she questioned.

"I've had a lot of spare time staring at walls the last two years," he repeated her answer as he pulled on his jacket. She grinned before he made to the door and opened it for her. She stepped out into the hall. "So what do I have to suffer through today then?"

"I don't know. I haven't gone farther than breakfast to be honest with you," she replied as she opened the kitchen door for him. John and Mary let out a happy birthday making him scoff before falling into the chair next to Peter, who was staring at Jen as if expecting something.

"What?" she asked him with a frown. He was bitter at the renewed kindness toward Sherlock; she had started the separation process, and Sherlock had ruined it with a bloody doll's house. He didn't understand.

"Nothing," he replied simply before looking back down at his plate as she collapsed in the other empty chair next to him. She picked up a fork and began shuffling around her own breakfast.

"Elea!" she shouted suddenly half way through breakfast making John jump slightly, and Mary laugh at his reaction. Sherlock looked up at her curiously wondering what brought the subject of the woman up.

"What?" John asked wanting to know what gave him a heart attack.

"Elea's in town," Jen answered as if that explained everything, but it just left him more confused. "She makes the best chocolate cake. That's what we'll do; plus, she's interesting. Bound to have something to entertain you, Sherlock."

"Who's Elea?" John asked her making her scrunch her face up as she thought on the best way to answer that question. There really was no simple answer the ever complex woman.

"Mycroft's lover… sort of," Jen answered tentatively. "A friend of mine… though that's a coincidence that she's a friend of mine and Mycroft's lover… sort of."

"Mycroft's- Mycroft's with someone?" John asked cringing imagining the British government with someone. It couldn't have been pleasant, and in all honesty, he really had no idea.

"No... yes... sort of… I've been told it's complicated," she replied stabbing her last sausage with her fork. "But Damon was telling me she was coming in and doing a project with him. Can't be a coincidence it falls on your birthday, Sherlock."

"Of course it's not," a woman replied causing them all to spin and stare at the redhead leaning again the door frame to the kitchen. "The universe is rarely so lazy… or so Mycroft tells me. You know I really don't listen to him most of the time."

"Eleanora," Sherlock greeted.

"Excuse me," she snapped in a voice that would have made mummy Holmes proud. "You will not greet me as such Sherlock Holmes." They all looked to him, and he was trying to remain dignified and do as he pleased, but he had known Elea for many years and knew she enjoyed being insufferable... not unlike his brother. "Sherlock," she snapped. He stood from his seat grimacing.

"It's good to see you, Elea," he remarked kissing her cheek.

"Better," she smiled before she turned to get a cup of coffee. "It's good to see you, Jen."

"And you," Jen replied before she pulled up a chair and collapsed in it before crossing her legs and looking around the table.

"Interesting group," she remarked looking at each them. John had his eyes plastered on her in both confusion and attraction. The woman was... well, the word voluptuous came to mind; she was the sort of woman you saw on old pinup posters before stick thin was in. John was confused on how a woman like her ended up with Mycroft of all people.

"Oh, sorry, John Watson," John held his hand out as he shook himself out of any inappropriate thoughts that came to mind, and she shook it. "This is my fiancé, Mary."

"Hello," Mary said brightly ignoring John's obvious staring- she couldn't blame him- and shaking her hand.

"This is my brother, Peter," Jen said waving a hand at Peter, who seemed disinterested in her. He had other things and plans on his mind. "He's a serial killer."

"Oh, well, that's just so you, Jen," she remarked with a charming laugh before she sipped her coffee. She paused and stared at John, who was still staring trying to understand her and Mycroft. It wasn't quite wrapping around his head. "You're staring."

"Are you really Mycroft's girlfriend?" John asked her. She smiled before she tried to think of the best way to answer.

"Not really," she replied considering the question. "I'm more of… a… well, I have no idea what you would call us. We're sort of enemies, sort of friends, sort of lovers, sort of strangers at times. Our relationship is complicated. Today, we're rather good, so I think friends will do, but last week, we were enemies when I stole a rather important document from the French President. He was very angry with me. Why?"

"It's just you're rather lovely," Mary explained understanding where he was coming from. She had heard enough stories about Mycroft to understand why he was confused.

"Oh, yes, the whole I'm sort of gorgeous and friendly, and Mycroft is an arrogant prick… wait no, is hubris considered an emotion?" she asked as an afterthought.

"Depends on the state," Jen answered causing Elea to 'ah,' and Jen to laugh at the response.

"Well, once you meet a Holmes everyone is just so dull and stupid," she explained simply before nudging Jen making her roll her eyes. "I've tried having normal relationships. Impossibly boring, well, that and they would always end up incarcerated or missing… I'm not accusing Umbrella Man of anything, but well… mm… anyway, so I was thinking we could go to the theater."

"Boring," Sherlock answered, but the reply simply made Elea smile as she knew Sherlock and Mycroft better than anyone.

"Here's why it's not," she replied with a grin, "I'll drag Umbrella Man out of his home, and he's bound to suffer more than you especially with some sort of election coming up," Elea twirled her fork. "He is bound to find any distraction, especially me, agonizing."

"And then halfway through, you and I will pop out of there," Jen told Sherlock with a laugh.

"See, she knows how this works," Elea laughed gesturing at Jen making said women grin. "My birthday present to you is torturing Mycroft, and I must say I have never been more delighted to give a gift." Jen and Elea laughed together as Sherlock sighed knowing even if he just wanted to sit at home, that would not be the case.

* * *

"Mycroft," Sherlock sneered standing in the theater with Jen at his side as she seemed to be admiring the elegant architecture.

"Sherlock," he replied giving him a look of distaste knowing this was his fault.

"Be nice to your brother," Elea demanded looking up at him with pursed lips. They were arm in arm making quite an odd couple. Mycroft sighed and shook his head not happy with demand but complying anyway. It was a wonder he ever listened to her. "Ginevra," Elea said changing the subject, "I could just rip that dress right off you." Elea glanced at the little black dress she had ripped unceremoniously out of her closet for the occasion. It old and rather dull, but it would do.

"Oh, dear, you took the words right out of my mouth," she teased eyeing the red number that Jen would never have guts to attempt to pull off with how much skin was showing. It was still surprising to her that Mycroft had chosen a companion in such a femme fatale as Elea, and yet, maybe he didn't choose her, and rather, she sort of just ended up in your life. Elea was the sort that just seemed to be able to enter people's lives without them putting up even a small struggle.

"Well, shall we then?" she nodded to the doors pushing Mycroft forward to walk alongside his younger brother. She was always one to encourage their relationship; they were still children with childish grudges, and it was a shame when it was so obvious how much they cared for each other.

"How did you even get him to agree to this?" Jen whispered to her making Elea grin.

"Oh, he owed me a favor," she told her with a mischievous smirk. "Last week, while we were in bed-"

"I really don't want to know," Jen told her ready to clasp her hand over her ears. She didn't not need any disturbing images of Mycroft floating around in her imagination.

"Not like that," Elea scoffed. "We were both in bed on different sides of the country talking on the phone. He was being a baby about a new security system, so I hacked it before I increased it's security. The firewall was the most pathetic excuse of cyber security I've ever seen. Anyway, so after Mycroft arrested me and I handed over the French Presidents papers, he ended up owing me a favor. Honestly, I think he just likes seeing me in handcuffs."

"More things I would like to get through my life without knowing," Jen informed her making the woman grin before they took their seats between the Holmes brothers, who remained as far away as they could. That didn't stop Mycroft from being a prat.

"You can't possibly enjoy this," Mycroft sneered at his brother knowing that this was nothing more than a device to torture him.

"Seeing you in agonizing pain is what I live for Mycroft," Sherlock replied seeming amused by the situation.

"You expect me to put up with this," Mycroft grounded out at Elea.

"You expect me to put up with this," she mocked right back making Jen snicker. "You are such a child."

"I'm a child? You're the one who-"

"Behave," Elea ordered in a very domineering voice making him fall silent after she gave him a life threatening look. He had learned years ago not to underestimate her ability to punish him. If he continue acting like what she deemed a prat, she would send the entire European Union in a frenzy that would take weeks to recover and that was only if she was gracious. She once caused a panic in England; the chaos could not be matched. Of course, she would claim that was Mycroft's fault. That was years ago when they were both still young and confused. Elea had been playing a game; Mycroft naively fell for; in turn, he left in her in tears with her heart broken, and she took her revenge in the form of rolling blackouts that wiped large computer databases. They were still recovering from it; some data would never be recovered. He had learned his lesson as she had learned her stricking an odd deal with her. Enemies when they had to be; friends when nothing else fit; lovers when it became too much to hold alone.

"You have to show me how to do that," Jen whispered to Elea, who was in complete awe of her masterful skills. The woman smiled at Jen.

"Years of practice," she assured the other woman making her laugh. The crowd fell silent and the theater grew dark. If she was honest, Jen didn't even know what they were supposed to be seeing, and it matter little because before the first Act was over Sherlock and her were tripping out of the theater with Elea locking Mycroft in his place with something of a sadistic smile. She swore she heard Elea laugh as Mycroft insulted her rather harshly.

"The pain on his face," Sherlock smiled amused with Elea's birthday gift. Jen laughed as they made their way down the street.

"You enjoy his suffering far too much," she tisked, but she was just as entertained as him. Mycroft was a pain in the ass, and well, he likely wouldn't suffer too much with Elea there."So… how about a go in the fight ring?" she grinned. They had yet to take a shot at each other since Sherlock's returning, and she was just itching to as much as he was.

"Oh, I don't know if you could manage anymore," he teased her.

"Them are fighting words," she told him hailing a cab. "You're going to regret that," she sang slipping inside the car.

"Of that I doubt," he quipped back following her lead.

* * *

The roars of the crowd were just increased as she pulled Sherlock into a rather vicious headlock. She was riling them all up as, well, she couldn't fight in the black dress, so she was in nothing but her knickers just fueling the testosterone in the room.

"Admit defeat, newbie," she breathed out. He let out a strangled laugh before he manage to slip his foot behind her knee causing her to lose her balance, but she hung on pulling him down with her. "I will kill you," she told him keeping her grip tight on him as her legs wrapped around his waist from behind keeping him down. He was down to his last resort of attempting to loosen her grip with his hands, but realized the uselessness of the action before he held up a hand in surrender. She let go, and he gasped out drinking in the air. Jen rolled away from him and stood before offering a hand he gladly took. The crowd cheered as they both jumped over the barrier. Sherlock offered her his jacket, so she wouldn't have to wear the tight-fitting dress. It really wasn't the wisest choice of clothing. She accepted the jacket as they headed out back out to the streets. "Well, that was fun," she said flushed from the fight.

"You nearly killed me," he reminded her making her grin before he broke his frown and gave her an amused smile. "Not a bad birthday," he admitted.

"I'm glad," she smiled looking at the ground trying to find something else to do. The day was still young, and there was still things that should be done. "Still haven't broken in anywhere," she decided, but before Sherlock could reply back his phone went off making them both pause in the middle of the sidewalk. "Oh, a shiny new murder for you?" He let out a slight chuckle as he checked his phone.

"New Carver murder," he told her seeing the text from Lestrade that gave him the newest location.

"It's not my brother," she groaned not wanting to get into this with him, not today. He was right, of course, but still, she didn't want the day to be spoiled by arguments when she was so sure she could keep both her brother and Sherlock, at least for the time.

"Well, come with me then. I'll show it is," he offered his arm, but she shook her head and took a step away.

"I don't think so," she grimaced not wishing to see what she knew was her brother's work. It brought back too many memories she did her best to bury deep. Sherlock's phone went off again. He frowned looking at the text.

**Come at once. You're going to want to see this. –Lestrade **

"Well, you're going to have to come anyways," he told her. He wanted her to see it with her own eyes; she had to see his destruction and madness. Peter needed to go at once, and he was adamant on showing her what she couldn't deny. He would show her a body, and he hoped he could. in turn, show her reason. "Apparently, no time to drop you off. Come on," he offered his arm.

"You know I can get home by myself," she told him hesitate to go with him no matter what he said. She didn't need more guilt on her conscious, but he was pressing her to come. The bodies were piling up, and Jen was the only one who could end it. Sherlock was certain of that as Peter would never stop on his own freewill.

"Come on, Ginny," he smiled offering his arm trying to seem polite, friendly as if he didn't have ulterior motives. He knew the murders were tearing her apart, but Peter was playing her well. She needed a push to see what was obvious; he needed to be locked away. Jen hesitated to take his arm but caved into him. They went running off to the street the body had been setup at. The police had the whole street cut off from the public, but people edged at the tape seeking to see the tragedy.

"Like roaches," Sherlock whispered to her. Despising those that gathered around a crime scene making things difficult. Her eyes scanned them; they really felt no sympathy. They felt curiosity and even excitement, but they cared little for the victim.

"Do you think if we bomb them they'll survive?" she asked him feeling rather bitter toward the crowd when she had no right.

"Only one way to find out," he quipped making her laugh as they started to get closer to the body. It was a small figure in what looked to be white. They moved closer to see it was a girl wearing white, but before they could see anything else, Lestrade stepped in front of her blocking her view and path toward the body.

"Oh," she said surprised taking a step back, so that she wasn't pressed against the detective by his sudden movement.

"She shouldn't be here, Sherlock," Lestrade whispered gravely causing Jen to try and peek around him at the body mostly out of curiosity more than anything. She could see the most beautiful blonde hair fanned out around the little girl. It was a golden halo around her.

"Just because she's The Carver's sister doesn't mean-" Jen's eyes had to be deceiving her as she could just make out the gentle face with a perfect button nose. It couldn't be; this couldn't be happening. She felt her heart start to hammer as her body temperature increased; everything around her seemed to fall silent.

"Lucy," she whispered causing Sherlock to stare at her in surprise before looking to Lestrade in alarm. "Lucy," she called out slowly walking toward the body. Lestrade grabbed her to stop her as she got closer and could see that she was right when she had never wanted to be more wrong. "Lucy!" she screamed pulling out of Lestrade's grip and running toward the torn up body. It was just like the others: cut up and carved, made to look like art. The girls face was frozen in horror; her crystal eyes were still open. Once full of life, they were glazed over, still. "Oh God," she cried out covering her mouth collapsing on her knees as her legs became unable to support her weight. "Oh God." She reached out a hand, but she didn't want to touch the mangled body. "No, no, no," she sobbed gripping her head between her hands. The world began to whirl and churn under her, and her head hit the pavement unable to stop herself from going into shock. Lucy's blue eyes, once bright with optimism, stared at her blankly accusing her. She could hear her speaking.

'You could have saved me. You could have saved me.'

"I'm… sorry," she whispered letting her tears fall to the pavement. "I'm so sorry." Darkness took her under leaving her feeling empty and sick with pain, exhaustion, guilt, and a hundred things swirling around.

* * *

A/N: I'm sorry I'm not sorry. It was always Lucy's purpose. Though when I saw that this chapter fell on Valentine's Day, I laughed, because I'm a terrible human being.

Thanks to reviewers: TinkerbellxO, k, Cereza101, zare . downey . okumura, Akira Darkness, hannahhobnob, scarlet tribe, and TragicBlossoms. I'll see you all next Saturday! Review please!


	12. No-win Situation

She wished it was a dream; she wished that when she awoke in Sherlock's bed it had all been a nothing more than a fabrication, and for just a second, she thought it was, but that was interrupted when the door slammed open making her jump. Mark began shouting at her livid, but she couldn't comprehend his words as her mind still floated around trying to find her body. Sherlock held him back as he began to lunge toward her violently. It started to come through.

"-your brother! I was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt, but you knew! You knew he would hurt her! And you just let him! You took your little boyfriend out probably under the tempt of a good fuck, and he killed her! You killed her!" Having enough, Sherlock turned Mark around and punched him right out. He sighed at the body on the floor.

"John!" he called out. The ex-soldier pushed the door open to see Mark's unconscious body. John sighed and gestured at the body silently demanding an explanation from Sherlock. "He was being annoying," Sherlock informed him as he glanced at Jen, who seemed highly disoriented. The death had hit too close to home; Peter had made his first mistake, and it would be his downfall.

"Yeah, let's get him out of here," John agreed having noticed the glance at Jen telling him the obvious cause of his action. John helped Sherlock lift Mark out of the room and likely out of the flat to a cab. They left, and as soon as they did, Peter appeared in the room disorienting Jen, who was not quite herself. She was out of it from the shock of her brother's actions.

"How are you, Jenma?" he asked happily as if he had a second Christmas. For him, that's exactly what it was for him; he had killed the girl not just because he thought it would in the end help his sister, but because he wanted to. He wanted to listen to her scream; he wanted to see how long she would last. Every time she had spoken, he would grind his teeth together, and he wasn't aware of it, but his own actions were dictated on jealousy and possessiveness of his elder sibling.

"Why did you kill her, Peter?" she whispered breaking him out of his sweet thought. He rocked on his toes with his hands behind his back. He smiled gingerly at her trying to put on a warm face, a friendly face.

"She was in the way," he informed her before sitting on the bed to comfort her. He put a gentle hand on hers; it felt cold, and he felt distant. "Don't you see? I did this for you; I know right now you're upset, but I swear you will see it was for you. She was turning you into something you're not; she was blocking your path and holding you back. She was making you soft." Peter had one goal, and to reach that goal, Lucy, Mark, and when he inevitably proved to be in the way, Sherlock, were in Peter's way. Lucy was dead, and Mark would never be seen in Jen's presence again, not with the little things Peter hinted to the man, and Sherlock would be a target when he became a problem. He wasn't prepared to clash with either of the Holmes brothers yet. And if he finished off Sherlock maybe he would go for Damon and after Damon, who knew.

"Peter," she whispered shaking her head letting her tears fall freely again. He tisked at her weakness making the pit in her stomach grow.

"See this," he said wiping off her tears before flicking them off in disgust. "You never would have cried over someone so insignificant before; I don't like seeing you cry. In the long run, I saved you a lot of pain." Jen searched his face and found that he was sincere. He believed he was trying to help her; he believed this would help her. "I love you, Gina," he said simply making her choke on her air and let out a sob at the hopelessness of it all. Her brother, someone she loved wholeheartedly, had killed someone she loved, and as much as she didn't want to admit it, she had a huge hand in it. She had kept her knowledge to herself, and Peter had killed Lucy for her. This was equal parts her fault, and it killed her to acknowledge that. It killed her that, in his mind, he did this because he loved her.

"I love you, too, Peter," she whispered wiping her tears and hugged him stiffly. She didn't know what she was going to do. It became apparent that she could no longer do nothing; Peter was a danger to anyone and everybody. She needed to collect her thoughts without him clouding them. "I need to rest; it's been a trying day." He nodded and left her alone. She sat against the headboard and stared at the wall. What was she supposed to do?This question rattled in her brain until the door opened, and Sherlock entered. He paused seeing her up and staring at the wall in concentration. "Close the door," she whispered recognizing his presence. He did as she asked and entered into the room quietly. She continued staring at the wall trying to straighten out her thoughts. She had two choices: to keep it to herself or to tell someone. Her eyes glanced to Sherlock; if she trusted anyone, it was him. "If someone… If I… If John did something horrifying… something… unforgivable… and you were the only to know about it… what would you do?" she asked looking up at him with a sort of hopelessness that terrified him. He couldn't see her this broken, not ever.

"I can't answer that as there's so many situation-" he began, but she cut him off.

"Sherlock, please," she pleaded not wanting a logical explanation. She just wanted answers, and he always knew the answer, to everything... didn't he?

"Something unforgivable?" he asked, and she nodded. "I would want to know why, and then after that, I would see if the damage could be fixed."

"And if it couldn't?" she asked him.

"Ginny, you can't compare John with your brother," he uttered sitting on the edge of the bed. Of course, he knew what she was talking about, and he wished for her to drop her act and speak clearly.

"I know," she told him as her voice cracked ever so slightly. She shut her eyes and took a breath. "This was my fault… I knew. I did nothing, and I knew."

"You helped him," Sherlock said suspecting as much since the body that had appeared while he was being questioned. She had been acting strange that day, and it had continued till Christmas. There was only one conclusion: Peter had a accomplice, and the obvious person was Jen. He didn't doubt it even for a second, but that didn't mean he saw her any differently. She was still his Ginny; she was driven by love and loyalty, and he had seen it a thousand times before. She would have turned hateful and cruel for anyone who loved her and whom she in turn loved.

"Yes."

"How many people did you help him murder?" Sherlock asked calmly. He wasn't sure what he was feeling, but he didn't like it. It could be perhaps likened to fear. Jen could be locked away for a very long time for what she did; she could be locked away from the rest of her life.

"This time around or last time?" she asked pulling her knees to her chest. He took a breath; he deduced as much as well. He had went over the old Carver records; he had seen what he had missed the first time.

"Let's start with last time," he answered.

"Half were mine," she replied quietly not sure what his reaction would be. He didn't seem phased, which only put her on edge even more. "I only killed the one this time. I don't really remember them… I suppressed the memories trying to run away from it all."

"It was… dead on. It took me a long time to spot any difference between your MO and Peter's," he admitted, and it sounded almost like a compliment. Perhaps it was a compliment. She was clever; he liked that. "I looked at the last case files involving your brother."

"How long have you known?" she asked. She could feel a little weight pull off her chest having someone know, but she wanted him to reprimand her, arrest her, anything.

"Since his arrest," Sherlock admitted, and that just made her dizzy.

"But… but," she stumbled not understanding, "you never asked… you never brought me in… I didn't even think you suspected… you aren't angry or…"

"Why would I be?" he asked her with a frown. It was his turn to be confused. She should have known better; why would he bothered by the murders? He had seen and even admired plenty of serial killers in his life; she was no different. "I've known for a long time your violence could potentially turn homicidal; it doesn't change anything."

"Oh," she whispered quietly feeling even more worthless at his kind words even if he didn't know how kind they were. "What are you going to do?"

"There are only two options," he admitted having spent hours thinking over this. "The first is that you come clean and confess what you did and what you know, but I can't let you do that. I can't see you behind bars, Ginny." He paused realizing he couldn't harm her or put her away; he needed her in his life, and it was unsettling. "Why would you help him?" he asked unable to understand.

"He's my brother," she told him as if it were that easy. "I love him."

"He's a psychopath, Ginny. You can't help him," Sherlock told her trying to make her see reason, make her see what she's done was wrong. There was only one other option, and he needed her on his side for this. However, with Lucy's death so fresh, it would be easy for her now. She knew what was right, and it was a painful lesson. "You do understand that?"

"Yes," she muttered looking down at her hands unable to meet his eye.

"What did you do with the clothes you wore the night you killed that woman?" he asked her seemingly at random. She answered without skipping a beat.

"I burned them," she told him. Ah, that was wear his favorite green sweater went.

"Good," he said. He wanted no evidence connecting her to Peter's crimes before he sought conviction. "Who knows what you did?"

"Just Peter and Damon," she told him. He nodded understanding the situation. He needed to make sure she stayed away from jail; Damon would provide an easy alibi if needed.

"Peter needs to be put back in Rampton, Ginny," he told her, but she didn't need to be told. "You know this."

"How?" she asked him knowing what he said was the truth. She didn't question him even for a second.

"You need to go with him on one of his murders, Ginny, and then, I need you to text me," he told her. "I'll make sure you get out before Lestrade shows up."

"Sherlock, I can't betray him," Jen told him. She was willing to openly admit that he needed to be locked back away now, but she wasn't going to just betray him. He was still her brother, but Sherlock knew that he needed her to be the one to betray Peter. The Carver wouldn't make any mistakes unless it came to his own sister, and then the mistakes were multiple and hard to ignore.

"Ginny, you have to," he told her, "or people will keep dying, and your brother will keep twisting your hand." His manipulation against Jen was skillful, and if it wasn't Jen he was doing it to, Sherlock might have commended Peter at his masterful manipulation using the human defect of love. However, it was Jen he was playing, and he couldn't allow that to go on. "Do you understand? You don't want any of this. He already killed Lucy." She felt a pit in her stomach grow large enough to press on her lungs. She had to make a choice, and the choice was obvious. This was a no win situation; either way, she would be killing a part of herself.

"I'll do it," she told him quietly not looking at him but at her hands that clenched together too tightly.

"You're going to have to wait a little," he told her not happy with the idea but knowing it was ideal. "You're going to have to make Peter believe that you think he did what was right. You understand? You make him believe he trusts you."

"Yes," she whispered nodding in agreement. "I can do that."

"I'll be right here," he told her gently before he kissed her forehead. He went to stand, but Jen grabbed his arm. He looked down at her, and she began quickly searching for something.

"Stay?" she asked. "Please, I can't be alone." Slowly, he sat back down. His back was toward her, and for just a second, he was hunched over with his head in his hands. And just for a second, she saw through the steel; he was drowning in things he can't handle alone. He was full of sorrow and a weight seemed to press on him. His face wiped clear before he began to stand again, but Jen pulled him back down and wrapped her arms around him pressing herself against his back. He was rigid, but she didn't mind it so much. "You're sad," she muttered.

"Lucy's dead, Ginny," he reminded her. He wouldn't admit it out loud, but he really cared for that little girl. She was a bright spot in his life, and that bright spot had gone out and would never be seen again. Enola, she reminded him of Enola.

"You should stop and take a few days to mourn," she whispered as she increased her grip around his waist.

"I can't," he told her trying to stand, but she was a lot stronger than she looked forcing him to remain seated on the bed with her pressed against him.

"I never scold you for being emotionless," she answered, "but this time, I will. Sherlock, you can't... when something like this happens, you can't pretend it doesn't hurt. It'll tear you apart. Mourn with me, and then, you can shut Lucy's room and move forward."

"Caring is not voluntary," he told her quietly setting his hand on top of the one that was around his wast. This was his own sigh that he didn't choose to care for Lucy as he didn't choose to care for Jen.

"I know," she whispered back with a sigh. They didn't say anything for what seemed like an immeasurable amount of time; the room was filled with a heavy, mournful silence. They remained pressed together with Sherlock's hand on hers occasionally running his thumb over her fingers until Jen fell back asleep, and very gently, Sherlock put her to bed. He let himself fall into the chair in the corner of the room as he watched her. Lucy weighed on his mind but so did Moriarty's game. Jen was still in danger. He had lost Lucy; he wouldn't lose her.

* * *

Robert Verown stared at the door to 221B. He had no desire today to bother Jen nor to confront Sherlock Holmes. No, he was there for the newest resident; he was here to see his younger brother after years of abandonment. He didn't feel good about it, but it had to be done. He stepped up to the flat to see Peter waiting for him in Sherlock's chair.

"Tea just finished," he said gesturing rather tiredly to the tea on the side table. "Sit." Robbie did as the younger man asked. So, it was games he wished to play when he was so very tired of them. He thought he was done playing Peter's little game, but anybody could be dragged back in. Peter had perfected his game over the years; he had gained allies and polished his techniques.

"I know what you did," Robbie told Peter as he sat in front of him and took his cup of tea. They were the only two in the flat, and now, big brother wanted a word. Peter hadn't seen Robbie since he was seven, and he wanted nothing to do with him. This was his game, and he didn't want Robbie in the way. He could pose a problem, or he could just form another barrier that needed to be taken care of. "I know you've been using Gina as-"

"Oh, shut up, Robbie," Peter snapped cutting him off. As far as Peter knew, Robbie had nothing do with Jen. How could Peter know that every step of the way Robbie had been clearing her tracks? How could Peter know that Robbie had named his daughter after her? How could Peter know he left to help her? How could he know that every fall on their father's birthday he goes to his grave just as she does, and he watches her from afar as she cries as he attempts to keep his own composure before leaving flowers of his own? "You think after this long you have a right to play big brother to me, to her." Robbie let out a sigh.

"I've tried to protect her, but how can I when you damage every attempt I make along the way?" he asked him with a growl. Peter was always that barrier in his way; Peter's manipulations ran deep.

"I love Gina," Peter replied simply as if that was all there was to it.

"No," Robert answered shaking his head knowing him well enough. "You love what she could be. You love a dark, twisted side of her that you want to bring out again. She's not that person." Robbie let his eyes slid closed to the dark days. She was different then; she had nothing but her own insanity to comfort her, but Peter was locked away, and she slowly got better until Christopher Black.

"And she's not some little innocent child," Peter sneered disliking how Robbie insisted on seeing her. "You think I don't know what you want. I do, and I won't let that happen."

"You need help, Peter," Robbie told him evenly even though he knew the plead was useless.

"Help!? I don't need help! I'm free," he laughed loosing his calm, sane facade at the flick of a switch. "I'm freer than you!" Robbie slammed his tea cup down onto the saucer.

"You can take a swim in your madness if you so desire, but don't drag Gina with you," Robbie warned him. "I could see it ever since we were young. You were beyond saving; Irene was always the survivor by any cost, and Gina could be saved. She could live a normal, happy life, and you just keep dragging her back in like a selfish child."

"She wouldn't want normal," Peter spat disgusted with the idea of normality.

"She's never had a chance for normal. You've never allowed it," Robert pointed out becoming tired with him. He didn't know why he was reasoning with the little psychopath. Perhaps Robbie believed that Peter loved her more than he wanted to play the game or that she was more than what he wanted her to be. "She blames mum and dad and me and Irene and everyone for her troubled childhood and adolescence, but she refuses to see that you hurt more than any of us could. You used her and twisted her; you made her feel empathy and you… Peter…" The two men held the other's gaze. "I'm going to give you a choice, now. You're hurting her; somewhere in you, you can see that; you know that. So stop this. I'm not saying turn yourself in; I'm saying stop the killings, the death, stop twisting her." The Carver seemed to contemplate this idea seriously before a grin spread on his face, and he laughed giving Robbie his answer. The elder brother slammed his cup down letting it shatter before throwing Peter to the wall with a hand at his throat. Peter was still grinning.

"What are you going to do to me, big brother?" he teased him. "Jen would never forgive you."

"She hates me already," Robbie told him increasing the pressure of his hand around his little brother's neck, "and I'm willing to be the villain if it saves her."

"And my death?" Peter choked out with a laugh. "You think it'll save her? Really consider it, Robbie, dear? It won't save her; it will end her." Robbie's grip loosened allowing him to speak more clearly. "The game has started, and it's too late to stop it." Robbie's gaze lingered on Peter before he let him go. "Only she can end it, and she won't."

"She's done it before," Robbie informed him. "She can do it again."

"At what cost?" Peter asked him letting Robbie allow a deep frown to set on his face. The cost? The highest cost there was. Either way, this was a no win situation. Try and prevent the game, win the game, or lose the game... either way Jen wouldn't be the same person when it was over, and it stabbed at his heart. He let the ache set in before he turned to leave, but he paused wanting the last word.

"The cost is steep," he admitted, "but I refuse to believe that she would rather live as a monster."

"How would you know if you've never let her try? You seep her in a lie, and she has no choice in the matter," Peter informed him. "You are just as manipulative as me, Robbie."

"And you would keep her in the dark as well," Robbie reminded him.

"It's best," Peter told him. They agree on only a single thing; it was best Jen didn't know that she had two people trying to play puppet with her.

* * *

Sherlock lifted the visitation records for Peter Verown. Rampton had given them to him without fuss; he wouldn't have been surprised if they had put up a fight. He was actually more surprised that they didn't, but upon getting the records, Sherlock saw there was nothing worthwhile. All of the visitations that Peter had received had either been from Jen or from… Sherlock paused. Two years ago, not long before his fall, Peter was visited by Damon, not with Jen, just him alone, and there was no record of Damon visiting Missy O'Hera that day, he noted as he quickly compared the two books. He had been looking for discrepancies, and he found one.

Sherlock quickly texted Damon, a first. **Come at once if convenient; if inconvenient, come anyway. -SH**

**What is this about? I'm in a meeting. –Damon**

** Jen, Moriarty, and Peter. I need to question you on a matter of great urgency. Richard Jancowski can wait. –SH**

** I'm not even going to ask how you knew I was meeting him. I'll be there as soon as possible. –Damon**

Sherlock sat in his chair with his palms clasped together. There was no need attempting to solve The Carver case now that a plan was in motion; he was now back to working on Moriarty's game, and it was no easy task. The door downstairs opened, and Damon's surprisingly light footsteps hit the stairs before he creaked the door opened.

"Alright what is it?" Damon asked as he slipped farther in the room toward Sherlock, who watched the man to discover the unseen.

"Two years ago, what were you doing visiting Peter without Jen and no intention of seeing your sister?" Damon stared at Sherlock for a moment before he collapsed in John's chair and reoriented himself trying to appear busy before he answered.

"I see Peter as a brother-" he started, but Sherlock rolled his eyes at the stupidity of the statement. Sherlock saw how easily Damon was ready to jump on Peter if the need arouse; he hated him there as much as Sherlock did.

"Don't treat me like an idiot, Damon," he snapped at him. "Why did you visit Peter that day? There was a reason." Damon watched him carefully and opened his mouth before closing it and shaking his head. He had long considered letting Sherlock in on the conspiracy surrounding Jen, but he wasn't sure how the detective would react. He was a wild card; Jen was not suppose to fall in love with a man like him. It caused too many problems, and that was obvious two years ago, yet he let it progress hoping for the best. He should have known hope was best left to children.

"I got a call from my sister," Damon told him truthfully but not ready to tell him everything.. "She was… livid."

"Why?" Sherlock asked.

"James Moriarty had showed up to visit Peter, and it scared her. She feared that Peter would go back to his old ways," Damon replied still giving him the truth, but it gave him more questions than answers. Sherlock wouldn't go far with the investigation; he couldn't.

"Then you knew about Peter and Moriarty before I did. Why didn't you tell me? That was vital," Sherlock sneered not sure what sort of game Damon was playing. Damon didn't want to play any game, but honestly, he had no choice. Everything was carefully set and planned.

"It changes nothing," Damon informed him forcing Sherlock's frown to deepen.

"How did Missy know him?" Sherlock asked trying to attack from a different angle.

"Peter told her about him," Damon shrugged, but he didn't believe that for a minute. Sherlock leaned toward Damon analyzing him. Dilated pupils, clammy skin, nervous tick in the leg that he was trying hard to control.

"What are you hiding?" Sherlock asked him. "Something's making you nervous."

"I'm not-"

"You're a good liar but not good enough. What is it you're trying to protect? I would say Peter, but you've been less than pleasant toward him so no. What could you possibly care about that-" Sherlock stopped his train of thought to stare at Damon. "You're trying to protect Ginny." It was the only possible reason Damon would keep quiet. "You knew Moriarty was interested in her, and you're trying to protect her because… you know what he wants."

"These are ridiculous accusations," Damon snapped standing to leave telling Sherlock all he needed to know as he stood as well to prevent him from leaving.

"I'm trying to help her," Sherlock informed him stepping in front of the man. Damon knew that, but he couldn't help. No one could. "Tell me what Moriarty wants."

"No," Damon answered trying to step around him, but Sherlock wouldn't allow him to cutting him off again.

"Why?" Sherlock demanded. "He's playing a game and-"

"And this isn't a game against you, Sherlock." It was Damon's turn to cut him off. "Moriarty is playing a game with Lupa, and… believe me when I say there is very little you can do to stop it. It's already started." Damon look exhausted from the revelation; something certainly weighed heavily on his mind.

"How?" Sherlock demanded. Damon shook his head. He wouldn't tell him directly, but he could push him in the right direction.

"The jacket, Sherlock, was just the start, and now, it's time to use your head. Moriarty visited Peter; Peter is now running around London murdering people including those Lupa cares about. Sherlock, how did Peter get out of Rampton when he killed hundreds of people? Who would be mad enough to allow that?" Sherlock had long concluded that Peter had wormed his way out through bribe, but it didn't occur to him that Moriarty had use for Peter even with him dead. He had reason he wouldn't have been the one to ensure Peter's leave, but Damon was implying this to be the truth.

"Moriarty bribed the board… why?" Sherlock asked. Damon raised an eyebrow at him as if he was insulting the detective's intelligence.

"You've seen Jen these last few months… Peter's killing her," Damon answered and as if that was enough of an answer, Damon finally stepped around the other man and left the room. His feet fell heavy on the stairs: anxiety. Sherlock tousled his hair before he threw himself on the couch with his hands placed under his chin to think on Damon's words.

* * *

A/N: What is going on?! What the hell is Damon talking about!? What the hell is Robbie talking about!? Who knows! (whispers: I know). Whoa, so a huge reaction some of you lovely people, so it's early! I should kill people off more often. ;D

Thanks to reviewers: TinkerbellxO, SemiraBlake, flaming-amber, Han Alister, short-skirtbluescarf, zare . downey . okumura, suzii3499, Feint Illusion, Skaggirl, Cereza101, hannahhobnob, scarlet tribe, Akira Darkness,and leaisnotonfire. Love you all! See you next Saturday! Review please!


	13. Twisted

Jen slammed the bathroom door and locked it before she let out a scream of frustration that had been building for a week now. She had been trying to do as Sherlock said, to show Peter trust, but it was killing her. She shut her eyes and saw both the people he killed and the people she killed. She could see Lucy asking her why. Why? Why? Why? But she couldn't answer her, and all the way she felt herself slipping farther and farther into her own insanity. She was betraying her own flesh and blood, and she had to. She had to, or he would keep at it. All the while she couldn't breath; she was suffocating. Brick upon brick was set on her chest.

Jen kicked the door hard crying out as her nails scratched down the surface of the door peeling of the paint. She took a deep breath trying to calm herself, but it wasn't working. Her heart was racing, and she could hear screaming in her head that wasn't her own. It was driving her mad, heckling her. She banged her own head against the door as she let out another cry.

Sherlock stood outside the bathroom door having heard her scream in frustration. He put his ear against the door trying to listen to any noises of distress. She was slowly breaking down, and he could see her mental health deteriorating. He worried what would happen when it finally broke away and crumbled leaving Jen nothing but a warped perception of the world. He had asked her to pretend to trust Peter, to betray her brother, and though she knew it was for the best, it was killing her. She thought Peter was the only family she had. So he waited, listening if she needed help he could provide.

Jen took another deep breath before she turned to the mirror that stood across from her. It didn't look like her; she couldn't really say why, but it just didn't. It seemed like it was something someone was trying to carve out what she wanted to see. That wasn't her in the mirror; it was a fraud. The woman didn't look half as tired or frustrated as Jen felt; she looked normal as if she wasn't drowning in madness, as if she wasn't struggling with her own emotions, as if she wasn't constantly rejected and reshaped by everyone around her. The woman in the mirror wasn't melting; her own identity wasn't slipping through her fingers as Jen's was. She wasn't constantly forgetting who she was, what made her, why she was here. She wasn't lost as Jen was. The woman in the mirror had no problems; the woman in the mirror was fucking perfect, and Jen hated it. She hated her; she envied her. So although her actions seemed so quick and involuntary, she shouldn't have been surprised when she swung her hand back and smashed the mirror letting the glass bury itself into her hand as she pressed harder.

Sherlock heard the smash, and he broke in the door open finding the lock not very impressive. He paused seeing Jen stare at her broken reflection as blood dripped off her hand onto the bathroom floor. She seemed fascinated by the reflection; the broken reflection was more fitting than the whole one.

"Ginny," he uttered trying to bring her back to him. Something had changed in her disposition. Her stance was rigid, and a shadow seemed to linger over her. She was a terrifying image; this was the woman who had killed people. She wasn't gentle; she wasn't the Ginny he knew. For a moment, Sherlock lost the Ginny he knew, and she was replaced by a creature that made even his heart race with fear. "Ginny," he whispered again putting a gentle, tentative hand on her shoulder. The shadow vanished leaving a fragile creature as she turned to him crying. "You have glass in your hand," he told her gingerly reaching out a hand to cup her right one.

"She was taunting me," she whispered to him, but he suspected she wasn't truly talking to him. He suspected his Ginny was a hundred miles away in a place he could not follow.

"Who was?" he asked her quietly as he sat her on the edge of the bathtub.

"The woman in the mirror," she answered as he ran the warn water in the bath. He pulled her hand in the water, and she let him without a fuss.

"She's you, Ginny," he told her, but she shook her head worrying him. Perhaps, he had asked too much of her. He stood and pulled the first aid kit from the linen cabinet before kneeling at her feet and opening the kit. "I know you are under a lot of stress, but you need to hold yourself together." He slowly began to remove the few shards of glass that remained in her hand. "It'll be over soon."

"For Peter and for you, but it'll never be over for me," she told him. "I'm scared. I'm scared," she whispered again before putting her head on his shoulder.

"I know you fear loosing Peter," he answered as he slowly began to dress her hand, "but you have others who you can lean on. People who actually care, who are good for you like Damon and John."

"John's good for you," she muttered. "He makes you more human."

"Don't remind me," he scoffed.

"And you... you care for me, don't you?" she asked him.

"Ginny, do you really think I would try and make a pathetic attempt healing both your mind and body if I didn't care for you in some way?" he questioned somewhat bitterly. He still resented how much he cared for her, but he had no choice in the matter. It had happened, and it can't change.

"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is a disadvantage," she reminded him.

"I have discovered it is not voluntary no matter what I do," he replied quietly as he finished dressing her hand she cupped his face between both her hands staring down at him in some sort of desperation. "Ginny?" She pulled herself closer to him now on the very edge of the tub. He would have stood and taken a step away, but she kept him firmly rooted, trapped.

"Tell me everything will be okay," she begged.

"It'll be okay," he answered.

"Tell me I'm not alone," she demanded.

"You're not alone," he replied as she set her forehead on his bringing them closer together. Her nose gently touch his as her forehead pulled from his.

"Tell me you love me," she requested cause his heart to jump and his breath to pause as her eyelashes gentle skimmed against his cheek and her breath fell on his lips. "Tell me you love me," she murmured.

"Ginny," he began.

"Hmm?" she purred as his own body leaned into hers. His body reacted to her as he put his arms around her waist. Wild, inappropriate, dirty thoughts that were meant for average, normal men started leaking out from the bolted closet of Jen's room in his mind palace forcing his heart rate to increase and his mind to start swimming.

"Ginny, I-" He should have heard the heavy, soldier's feet that entered the bathroom, and the man that seemed completely flustered by the position of the two that he accidentally spoke in panic sufficiently breaking the private moment and making things more awkward than they had to be.

"I'm sorry- I didn't mean to-," John began causing Sherlock to bolt away from her almost in fright. "Was I interrupting something? I can come back." Sherlock gave him a hardened look, but wasn't sure he was truly upset or not at the interruption.

"No, I was just dressing Ginny's hand," he replied evening trying to sufficient seal the room back up. With the help of the towel bar, Jen stood, but she was unbalanced and seemed to sway like drunk.

"Are you okay?" John asked her, and she looked at him with glazed eyes before she collapsed onto the bathroom floor much to the alarm of Sherlock and John.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was not one for social visits nor was he one for hospitals. After all, he still believed that caring was not an advantage, but as it so happened, the woman currently walking at his side had pressed him to see Jen even though she remained unconscious. From exhaustion, he was told though he generally made his own assessments and found many doctors to be completely incompetent.

"Oh," Elea muttered entering the room first to see Sherlock passed out in a chair near Jen's bed. Damon was awake smoking a cigarette though it was against one of those weird things called laws. Myra was out taking care of his business while John and Mary were taking care of Toby as well as Peter. Damon gestured for her to come in.

"I wouldn't think I would see you here," Damon told Mycroft as Elea took an empty seat near the unconscious woman opposite of the younger Holmes. She observed him; it was so rare to see him or his brother in a defenseless state as he was in now.

"Has Robbie been told?" Mycroft asked. Damon nodded.

"I contacted him as soon as I could; he's worried. We all are," the man muttered looking toward the bed-ridden woman. "Sherlock said she was acting strange. Said the mirror was taunting her. Do you think he knows?"

"No," Mycroft answered in the negative as he walked Elea rearrange the flowers that people left for her. "If it was anyone else, my brother would know by now, but he's blinded by her. In his eyes, she is without flaw; she can do no wrong, and if we are lucky, he'll never know. He would be to eager to fix the unfixable."

"Lucky?" Damon questioned raising an eyebrow at him. "Look at the damage Peter has done already."

"Peter?" Mycroft tisked at the man's simplicity. "You know as well as I that Peter is just an accessory to her demise. This was all Moriarty's doing, and if he was alive, he would be laughing in Sherlock's face, taunting him."

"Do you think he could?" Damon asked Mycroft. "Do you think that if Sherlock knew he could help her? He's been studying Moriarty's game inside and out. It's only a matter of time before he knows and acts."

"One must ask if the problem is fixable, Damon," Mycroft replied staring down at the girl. Years ago, when she was only sixteen, Mycroft had come in contact with her without her knowledge. He observed her, watched her, and he was fascinated to discover that she had ties to him. Robbie, one of his closest associates, was her brother as was the Carver; Sherlock had become unnaturally intrigue by her, and then there was a matter of her family on both sides of her genetic line. He had contact with them one way or another; Mycroft wasn't even sure if Sherlock knew how many times he had actually had contact with Jen and her family.

If he believed in fate, he was would say Sherlock as well as himself were destined to meet her and eventually protect her all without her knowledge, of course. Mycroft had become wrapped up in a conspiracy with the German government and one of the most wanted crime lords in the country all for a girl who should have been so insignificant. Yet, what made her significant to him was his brother.

Mycroft set his eyes on the sleeping form of his baby brother. Sherlock would like to think Mycroft didn't care at all. He would like to think that Mycroft hadn't seen how scared, sad, and lonely Sherlock had been after the death of Redbeard and then even more so once Enola passed. But Mycroft had seen, and at a young age, Sherlock coped by shutting off his emotions. Jen had given something to Sherlock that he hadn't had in his life; she had shown him compassion and empathy. Mycroft recognized even in a young teenage Sherlock that this woman with all her problems was Sherlock's match in every sense of the word. She was his match as Elea was his despite planning her death on more than one occasion. So, he had to protect her as well as he could, and it hadn't been an easy task. She fought against those who tried to help her; she was stubborn, but eventually, Shadow disbanded, and Mycroft urged her to move to London in hopes the two would run into each other despite Damon O'Hera's protests.

"Is it fixable?" Damon question mostly to himself, but Mycroft chose to answer.

"No," he told him absolutely. "To fix her would be to destroy her. The best thing to do at this point is allow her to rest and get rid of her brother as soon as we're able. Time is running short, and she's running thin. All we have is hope, and you and I know that hope has never gotten us anywhere."

"Hope is the fire of all men," Elea finally spoke, but she said nothing more as Mycroft settled in.

* * *

She was out of the hospital within the week, but she was under orders for bed rest, and Sherlock wouldn't allow her out of his room for the first week, but he gave her some leeway as time went on. She remained in an exhausted state, seeming slightly frantic as she muttered to herself often forgetting what she was doing. Sherlock was eager to see Peter gone.

"Where are you going?" Jen asked Peter as he attempted to sneak passed her on the street. She was waiting for him to sneak out of his window. It had been three months since Lucy's death; she hadn't spoken to Mark since effectively ending their relationship. She had showed her brother nothing but trust though every once in a it threw her into a fit, and she screamed and cried when she thought no one noticed. She had help and support from Damon and Sherlock, the only ones who knew the truth, but sometimes it wasn't enough. She was ready to end this.

"What do you think?" he said with a grin before he started to saunter away. This was ending today.

"Let me go with you?" she asked. She gave him a smirk trying to remain confident that this was what needed to be done. "Like the old days."

"Yeah," he said. "I already have one waiting for me." He had one waiting for him already. He made it sound like it was normal; it was nothing. There wasn't a human being's life that was about to end because of him. She ignored it and followed him.

The two of them headed toward an abandon warehouse on the Thames not far from Damon's warehouse that housed the fight ring. Peter entered before he ducked into a hidden trapdoor that led to a basement not found in the warehouses. It was likely a smugglers warehouse that had gotten shut down ages ago judging from the dilapidated state.

"How did you find this place?" she asked hating it. It smelled like mold and mildew, and despite being rundown, it seemed to let no light inside.

"Followed some rats to here," he told her with a smile. "Surprisingly useful creatures when you need them to be." She nodded as they continued passed piping to a man, who hung upside down from one the rafters by the means of old chains. He had a gag in his mouth, but his eyes were wide open. This was how Peter did things; he didn't drug them; he wanted them to feel everything he did with every sense intact and know it was him doing it. There was a drain under her where the blood would flow into, but it didn't help the smell of stale blood in the room.

Jen quickly fished her phone out of her pocket and hesitated to do what she was unsure about doing, but in the end, she texted him before dropping her phone in her pocket. There was no going back, was there? "Would you like to make the first incision?" he asked her holding a scalpel up with a grin. She tried to steady her hand as she reached out to take the scalpel from him before the floor creaked above them and dust falling on them from the ceiling.

"Someone's here," Peter mused as the roof above them creaked again closer to the trapdoor. "It happens," he shrugged; Jen wondered how many people died, who had come to investigate. Peter sighed and took a gun from his back shelf; she wonder where he got it, and who he got it from.

He went up the ladder, and Jen lingered looking back at the man, who gave her an agonizing, pleading look.

"Help is here," she whispered trying to assure him. "I'll be back." Jen turned to the ladder and headed up to the main room. She was met with the sight of Peter holding a gun at Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock's eyes flickered to Jen; she would take his side not Peter's; he was sure.

"Your boyfriend followed us," Peter growled watching Sherlock with a sadistic grin. Jen would take his side not Sherlock's; he was sure of it. Jen slowly stepped to Peter's side to try and convince him to give this up. He was still her brother.

"Peter, drop the gun," Jen begged giving him another chance.

"No," he told her. This time he would kill Sherlock Holmes. "No! I have him right where I want him! He's going to die this time, Jenma!"

"Peter," she begged not sure what to do. She could let Peter shoot Sherlock. No one would know; he would just be another victim. Or she could try and get the gun from Peter, but what would be the point in that? Peter would go back to Rampton; he would convince the board again, and he would start killing again, and even if he didn't he would know that she had betrayed him. He would warp her emotions to suit him. He cared about her, but he used her more than anyone. What was happening? Why didn't she ever see that? He twisted her and twisted her, and she never fought back. "Peter," she whispered putting a hand on his arm. She already knew what her choice was the minute she agreed with Sherlock that he couldn't be help. She turned to stand between him and Sherlock. "If anyone gets the right to kill him, it'll be me." Slowly, Peter smiled. That was the sister he knew.

"How appropriate," he said giving her the gun without hesitation. Sherlock looked panicked at the sudden change in the room; he had been wrong. Her own instability was outweighing her logic. It happens, but he was sure that it wouldn't happen to her. He had one last effort to save her from herself.

"Ginny, stop," he told her, begged her, "your brother's manipulating you. Don't you see that?" She ignored him as she looked to her brother with a sad smile and hugged him tight trying to press everything she felt into that one hug. She felt a pit grow in her stomach as she felt the gun rattle in her hand. She stopped breathing as her heart pounded threatening to explode.

"Thank you, I love you," she whispered tears falling down her eyes as she could barely control herself from sobbing at the choice she made, "and I'm so sorry I failed you." She titled the gun up to his head and before he could process her words there was a bullet in his head, and Jen was left covered in her little brother's blood holding his broken body.

She collapsed on her knees with him in her arms. She finally let the flood gates open, and she began to cry over his body. Her whole body shook with the gun still tightly in her hand as she debated lifting the gun to her own head for her crimes, but Sherlock was at her side before she could make up her mind. He put his hand gently on the gun and took it from her before she bent over in what felt like physical pain. Crying so hard she wasn't making a sound, and in so much pain she couldn't move, Lestrade and his squad found Sherlock attempting to comfort her when they arrived.

* * *

A/N: I ask again: What the hell is going on? Now Mycroft's in league with them? What? And what the hell is going on with Jen loosing her damn mind? Who knows! (Whispers: I know.)

Why am I so early with this update? Call it an early 100 review present (I'm at 87, but this was a short chapter, so eh). You get an early update and Peter's dead. Bet you didn't expect that.

So thank you to reviewers: Akira Darkness, hannahhobnob, flaming-amber, Cereza101, and zare . downey . okumura. For real this time, I'll see you next Saturday! Review please!


	14. The Funeral

Sherlock watched her from the passenger seat concerned for her well-being; Damon was driving toward the small sea-side town of Braxton with Myra next to him. Mycroft- when not being a pest- had his uses; he had managed to get Jen off without so much as a trial, but there was still the funeral. It took two months to get the body back and get the funerals arranged as victim's families protested wearing Jen thin, but she took it in silence. As a sign of good faith, Mycroft even manage to get Missy a day pass outside of Rampton to go to the funeral as long as she was watched and took her medication. She sat next to Jen, whose hand she gripped in a vice.

Sherlock promised to go with her to her small town, back home. Peter would be buried next to their father in the local cemetery. As far as Jen knew, it was just going to be her, Sherlock, and Damon there as well as the priest that she managed to sway in her favor. She didn't imagine Robbie would bother; Irene couldn't possibly come; her mother likely had no clue, and Peter's biological father was still unknown. She would be proven wrong.

When they pulled up to the cemetery, they were surprised to see several cars parked outside for the funeral making Jen look to Damon for an answer; she was far too tired to find one herself.

"Damon?" she whispered trying to coax a response out of him. He searched for one in his mind, and finally settled on an answer that wouldn't upset her. She had been delicate as of late, and people were tiptoeing around her.

"Perhaps some people still remember him before he was The Carver," he told her gently gently trying to give her an encouraging smile.

"Perhaps it is some poor mother coming to curse me for my sins," she replied pressing her head against the cold door window despite being the beginning of summer. The winter had dragged on making the country feel desolate.

"You did nothing wrong, Ginny," Sherlock told her firmly, but she wouldn't hear his encouragements.

"I did everything wrong," she replied quietly before they finally exited the car and continue to move toward funeral plot. As they got closer, she could make out a few of the townspeople, and to her surprise, she saw Robbie sitting in one of the chairs in the front row as well as Irene and Susi. "You shouldn't be here," Jen said standing next to Irene. How did she even know? She glanced to Susi, who gave her a weak smile. She had likely gotten a call from Ulric; somehow he knew. He always knew despite having not seen him face to face since the disband of Shadow.

"And let you go through this alone?" she asked gently reaching up and touching her sister's hand. "Never."

"Thank you," she whispered through a cracked voice. She looked to her elder brother. He nodded to her before looking down at the ground trying to remain composed. Perhaps, she had underestimated how much he cared; he looked devastated even if any contact with Peter in the last years had been less than pleasant. But still, Robbie did remember Peter not just as a serial killer but as his only brother. He was still family. "Why did they come?" she muttered looking at the townspeople.

"The man on the far right," Sherlock whispered to her, "is Peter's biological father." She looked to the man, who- now being told- looked a bit like Peter.

"The butcher… sort of makes sense," she admitted before looking at each townsperson. They were some of the kindest people in town. She recognized one of the old teachers from the nearby school, as well as the baker who often gave them the stale bread, the friendly bartender, and the local fishermen, who often acted as a substitute father.

"Jenma," Irene whispered looking up in the distance in surprise. Jen followed her gaze to see a small woman rather gracefully aged coming toward them. Her curly and rather unruly dark hair was the most recognizable feature on her. It was like Jen was looking at her future self. Walking alongside her was a man of average height and of no particularly striking feature.

"Ginny," Sherlock said with frown. He finally had a face to the stories she had told him. He never thought she would look so much like Jen; it was almost terrifying how similar they seemed. It was no wonder Jen had such problems when everyday she woke up to see her mother looking back at her in the mirror. "That's your mother."

"Yes, I know," she told him quietly, so he decided to take it upon himself to point out the less obvious.

"And that's your father," he answered looking at the man next to her mother.

"What?" she asked suddenly looking up at Sherlock. He looked down at her before glancing at her supposed father once more. The signs were all there. "What do you mean that's my father?"

"He's your biological father," he told her causing her to glance up at the man. He looked nothing like her as far as she could see. "It seems they got married."

"It… it doesn't matter," she muttered tilting her head downward as her mother took her place on the opposite side of the coffin from her. She gazed at Jen, who didn't look at her; the woman seemed to be thinking about what to say to her daughter, but she was failing. Jen reached out for a hand and found Sherlock's instead of Damon's. She gripped his hand tight and to her surprise he gently squeezed back to assure her that it would be alright.

"We are here today to honor the memory of Peter Joseph Verown," the Priest began, "brother and friend." He continued with reading a passage of the bible and saying things that simply didn't matter though she supposed they were just lucky to get a man of God to say something for Peter. Everything became sort of surreal as the funeral came on; her brother, her little brother was dead by her hand. In that tiny box, her brother would lie until he decomposed into nothing. She wanted to be sick; she wanted to die. She felt the pit in her stomach grow so vast it was threatening to rip her apart. She couldn't breath; walls were closing in on her. She was suffocating in the open air; she couldn't be here.

"I…," Jen started trying to get out something, anything to get her away from this place.

"Ginny?" Sherlock asked looking down at her. She looked pale and was wavering slightly on her feet.

"I can't," she struggled out before she turned and darted in the opposite direction of the funeral. Sherlock made to go after her, but a woman pushed passed him to get to her first. Sherlock watched unsure what to do as her mother went after her.

"Give them a minute," Damon told him as he watched them as well. He hoped some good would come from Regina Adler talking to Jen. If anyone could understand what was happening to Jen, it was her. He hoped Jen would listen.

* * *

Jen stared at the house; it was abandoned with a for sale sign that had been taken over by overgrown weeds. It was now dilapidated and was bending into what was likely a sinkhole deforming the windows' frames causing the glass to shatter in ages ago. What had brought her to this desolate house was haunting memories; she needed to come back; she needed some sort of closure. She had to slam into the door to open it from its bent frame.

She stepped inside letting a cloud of dust rise from under her. She could hear the sound of children screaming and crying. She could see her father lying on the couch drinking watching them go at it yet saying nothing. It stirred up a sob from her throat.

"It doesn't get better, does it?" a woman whispered causing Jen to spin around and lose her balance falling through the kitchen's archway. Her mother looked on in alarm; she hadn't meant to startle her. "Are you okay?" Regina asked going to help her up.

"Don't!" Jen objected scooting back into the kitchen away from her approaching figure. "Don't help! I can help myself." She pulled herself off the ground using the kitchen island as a clutch. She tried dusting herself off but failed with how much dust had settled on the floor. "Why are you here?" she asked bitterly still trying to sweep off the black dress as she pulled herself around the wooden island to separate her from her mother.

"My son's dead," she told her with a frown. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"Your son?" she whispered before she laughed sarcastically in disgust. "You knew his for four years of his life. You abandoned us."

"I know," she said with a nod looking to the ground trying to swallow the guilt. How could she explain what seemed to be unexplainable? "I thought it was best."

"Best!? Best!?" she shouted angry with her mother, and it wasn't helping that she was an emotional wreck already. Regina remained a safe distance. "I had to drop out of school to take care of father because of the shambles you left him! I had to raise Irene and Peter by myself! And you thought it was best!?"

"I was not good for you, Gina," she told her trying to make her understand.

"Yeah, well, I guess it runs in the family," she told her leaning against the counter taking deep breaths trying to get a hold of herself, a hold of anything. "I turned Irene into a power hungry blackmailing terrorist, and I turned Peter into psychotic serial killer. I failed them; I failed everyone."

"You failed no one, Gina," Regina told her approaching her cautiously, a wise move. "They became that way because of me, not because of you. I left your life in shambles and ruins, because I thought I knew best, but I was wrong. I should have stayed, and I'm sorry. I am so sorry you've had to go through this."

"Was it so hard to love me, mother?" she asked her bitterly. "I've always felt like I wasn't good enough for you to stay; you didn't love me enough to stay. Why couldn't I be enough for you to stay for your own daughter?"

"No, of course not! How could you think that?" she whispered finally closing the gap and standing directly across from her on the other side of the island. "I love you, Gina. I love you, and I love Robbie, Peter, Irene, and God, help me, I love your father more than anything."

"Then why?" Regina sighed.

"It's not so easy to explain," she admitted to her.

"Try," she demanded as her voice wavered. Regina fidgeted with her hands in a similar way Jen did when she was nervous. "Try!" she demanded again slamming her palms on her hands on the counter making Regina jump.

"Gina," she mumbled, "your father and I didn't meet in a bar; we met in a mental health facility. We fueled each other's madness, and it wasn't healthy. The more time we spent around each other the worse it got, and I had to make a choice. I hoped that with my absence he would try and get better, take his medication, be a father."

"He didn't," she told her. "He started drinking; the experiments got worse."

"I know," Regina told her quietly. "I made a mistake, and I know that I may never receive your forgiveness, but I want to know you. I want to try and be something to you. Can I ask for that?" She slid her hand on Jen's to try and make her see she was sincere.

"How can you ask to know me when I don't even know me?" she asked her pulling away from her mother. She used the opposite counter to lean on as she stared at the ground, reflecting. "I look in the mirror, and it doesn't fit."

"What doesn't?" she wanted to know.

"Me," she replied. "It's like someone painted the image I wanted to see on the mirror. No happiness or sadness or anger fits me. It's all… fake. It's all… the mirror should be cracked, broken. It would look more like me. I feel so lost."

"I felt the same way when I was younger," Regina comforted her. "I understand."

"No," she gave a halfhearted laugh. "No. How could you understand when I don't even understand? I don't understand what I'm trying to say."

"You're trying to say that all the words people describe you as are just lies. They aren't right. You feel lost, and you can't find you. You try and put an adjective to yourself, a picture to you the way you do with everyone, and you can't, because you don't know you. You don't know what you want; you don't know who you are, and it scares the hell out of you. It'll pass."

"It feels hopeless," she told her. "How can I be one person when I look in the mirror and see another?"

"You learn to be that person," Gina told her. "You find people who help you and support you. You find those who will accept you."

"She does a good enough job of that," a baritone voice said making them both jump and look to the doorway.

"Sherlock?" Jen uttered. "What are you doing here?"

"The funeral's over," he told her. "I came on the advice of Damon to see how you are feeling."

"I'll be fine, Sherlock. Thank you," she told him quietly, and she obviously didn't mean it but for now he dropped the subject as his eyes turn to observe Regina, who was observing him.

"Sociopath?" she asked curiously.

"High functioning," he replied. "Borderline Personality Disorder?" he asked, and she gave him a teasing smile making him doubt his assessment of her own disorder.

"Sure. Whatever you want handsome," she mocked him. So this is where Jen got her condescending personality. Interesting. His eyes tried to deduce her, but he was getting nothing besides that she had gotten a good night's sleep.

"So, that's where they got it from," he mused.

"Got what?"

"I can't deduce you," he told her. "Though the insomnia isn't from you."

"Yes, it is," she sang with a grin. "I grew out of it."

"You don't just grow out of a genetic disorder like insomnia. It's a lifelong condition," he told her scoffing at what he presumed to be lies.

"I'm sorry," she gave him a false laugh. "Are you a doctor?"

"No, but-"

"Then shut your mouth," she ordered making him look at her as if he had been struck.

"Well, I- Ginny, let's go. Your mother is annoying me," he growled gesturing to the doorway. She sighed and passed her mother going to him. They walked toward the doorway, but she paused before they could get there.

"I don't want to be around people," she winced imagining having to go to a bar that had some sympathizers and some who just wanted to see her drop dead.

"Stay here," he told her with a nod. "I'll get something we can share." She gave him a slight smile.

"Thank you," she muttered as he pushed the door open to see Regina's husband standing with his hand out as he was about to open the door.

"I'm sorry… I was looking for… wow, you must be Ginevra," he told her breathless as he looked over. "My God, you look like Regina. You have a bit of my mother in you, not much though." He shook his head. "I'm sorry. I'm… I'm Devon Marcus. I um… I'm-"

"My biological father," she told him with a nod.

"You know?" he said surprised as Regina scooted past them to take the place at his side.

"How?" Regina asked.

"Sherlock told me," she said looking up at the man. "He's a consulting detective; he solves cases Scotland Yard can't."

"Really, so what you researched me?" Devon asked teasingly. Sherlock looked him up and down.

"No," Sherlock told him bored. "I can tell you that you are Ginny's father by your entrance, her name, your marriage status, your left hand, and your knees."

"I'm sorry?" he questioned.

"I know you want to," she said with sigh. "Go ahead."

"Ginevra is the first clue about her linage," he told them. "She was named after her mother; she wasn't the first child, yet she was the only one of her siblings to be named after someone. This tells me that she was a favorite. Now, how could she possibly be a favorite so early that her name was to be Ginevra? Simple. Ginny's biological father had to be someone that her mother deeply cared about. You've married Regina, and judging from her mental state, at least, what I can grasp, not many people would consider her as a wife. So you likely had a passed relation with her. You walked to the funeral not sad, but nervous, nervous to meet your daughter, obvious from the creases on your face and that brings me to your left hand. It was twitching in nervousness, likely a physical anomaly not a learned behavior. Ginny does the same thing when she's nervous though she'll deny it. Last would be your knees. You're walking stiffly; the weather's affecting your knees. You need to get a replacement for the metal disk in your right leg. Ginny just had a replace for a bad knee last year. It was inherited from her father."

"Wow," Devon said amazed at the deduction.

"Don't wow at him it inflates his ego," Jen scowled, "and quite frankly, he deduced that your my father from all that, but he could tell you your life story."

"Well, it's nice to see you have good taste in men," Regina told her with a smile.

"We're not a couple," Jen told her quickly before turning on her heels to go wander the house again. Sherlock watched her to make sure she wouldn't do anything stupid while he was gone. He nodded before starting out with Regina and Devon in front of him preparing to enter the car that was waiting for them.

"It was nice meeting you," Regina told him holding out a hand. He looked at it before he found her face again to see a knowing smile. He took her hand. "Do me a favor and at least call me if you get her pregnant. I would like to know my grandchildren." She turned away with a laugh heading to her car.

"We're not-"

"Not yet," she sang out getting in the car leaving him standing there to consider Regina Adler. Despite her past wrongs, Sherlock decided, with an amused smile as he headed to town, he liked her.

* * *

It was just the two of them. Damon had to take Myra back to the institution, and Irene and Robbie had gone back to their hiding spots in different countries leaving just Sherlock and Jen to sit against the wall of her childhood bedroom passing a bottle of whiskey back and forth. Jen was cuddled up against Sherlock. His mind was a little too hazy from the alcohol and the lavender that was coming off her to decide if she was clinging to him due to a need for comfort, a need for human affection, or a need for him. She took the bottle from him and tipped it back. She had drank at least double what he had, and being such a small girl, she was completely sloshed.

"You know," she said airily, "Papa was a… he was an alc… an alc... he drank."

"I know," Sherlock told her patting her head like a good dog.

"Think I'm like him?" she asked taking another drink. He watched her stare at the bottle in annoyance.

"Nah, no, nah," he said shaking his head. "You… you're you, Ginny." She smacked her lips as she took another drink. He took the bottle from her and took his own drink.

"Do you think… do you… should I forgive her?" she asked switching topics enough to make his drunk mind dizzy.

"Your mother?" he asked thinking about what she could possibly be talking about.

"Yeeeaaaahhh," she said putting her chin on his shoulder to look up at him with puppy eyes that was brimming with some sort of desperation. "I'm, she's you know a big jerk, but she's my mummy, you know?"

"I like her," Sherlock told her.

"What?" she laughed successfully falling from his shoulder onto the floor in front of him. "You like her?"

"She's got… she's got an edge like you do, Ginny," he told her. "I like it." Jen laughed and stared up at the ceiling as her smile fell.

"Help me," she whispered before her smile was back, and she turned on her side to stare at him. He shook his head sure this time it was his imagination. She continued to watch him with a slightly pleased smile on her face.

"What?" he asked.

"I love you," she told him quietly.

"That's because you," he said touching her nose with his pointer finger, "are very drunk." She swatted his hand away with a playful smile.

"No," she told him trying her best to act some sort of sober. "I mean it, I really love you; I always will."

"But you said-"

"I lied," she giggled letting herself fall onto the floor and stare at him. "I will never not love you, Sherlock Holmes."

"You know-"

"You'll still be you?" she asked scratching at something invisible on the floor to avoid his eyes. "I know, and I'm okay with that. You just be you, okay?"

"Okay, Ginny," he whispered, and she nodded satisfied as she scooted herself back into his side. He raised his arms allowing her to wrap her arms around his waist. "I'm not sure if it's the alcohol," he told her with a laugh after a minute, "but I'm really happy." But she didn't hear him as she had passed out from all the alcohol in her system. She slept against him seeming content in her sleep; when she would awake, she would be lost again, and it made his happiness fall.

* * *

A/N: I should really just say I'm going to update on Fridays, because I always end up updating Fridays not Saturdays. Hmm... well! Anyway, so if you recall, I did say that A Fire To Be Reignited would be in three parts. Well, we have one more chapter until the end of Part One: The Carver, which is very, very exciting as we will slowly get some answers and hopefully some romance of some sort.

Thanks to reviewers: BloodyBlondeVamp, flaming-amber, hannahhobnob, zare . downey . okumura, Cereza101, scarlet tribe, MissKingdom VII, a lovely guest: Kat, and Akira Darkness. See you next Friday! Review please!


	15. Fear

The car ride back to London was silent, not a stifling silence but rather an irritable one. Sherlock and Jen were both nursing hangovers, and neither of them were really looking forward to the noise in the city. It was made worse by the flashing police lights in front of the apartment. Jen looked through the windshield to see John shouting at Lestrade.

"What's going on?" Jen asked as her and Sherlock got out of the car to approach them. Lestrade stared at the pair before he took out a pair of handcuffs.

"Ginevra Lorraine, you are under arrest for the murder of Lynda Walsh," he said bringing her hands behind her back. She should have seen this coming, but truth be told, she thought it was behind her rising panic in her.

"Sherlock," she panicked as Lestrade began telling her her rights. She looked to the detective for answers she didn't have.

"Don't say anything to them, Ginny," he warned her unable to stop Lestrade from taking her in, but he could at least stop her from condemning herself. "Say nothing."

"Sherlock," she continued to panic keeping her eyes on him as she was loaded into the police car. Lestrade approached the two of them as she looked out hoping something could be done. Jail didn't sound like the ideal place.

"Listen," Lestrade looked at the two of them not sure what to say; he was just as surprised as they were, "there's heavy evidence. There are witnesses and-"

"This is ridiculous!" John shouted cutting him off. He wouldn't hear this accusation. John didn't know what she had done, but he was sure that he knew her well enough to believe she wouldn't kill another person. "She wouldn't do this! For God's sake, she won't even let me kill the mouse that lives in the flat! There's no way in hell she could kill another person!" Sherlock didn't feel the need to correct him; they would discuss it later, but for now, they needed to get Jen out of trouble.

"I' m sorry, but I can't-" Lestrade started to tell them, but it was Sherlock's turn to cut him off.

"Just go do your job, and I'll do mine," Sherlock told him. "I'll clear her name." Lestrade nodded before going back to his car to bring Jen into custody. Sherlock quickly spun to look at the street and hail a cab.

"What are you going to do?" John asked watching him already formulate a plan. Sherlock didn't seem happy with the idea, but he would do it if he has to.

"Call in another favor from Mycroft," Sherlock replied flatly. "He won't let her be arrested as much as I won't." Sherlock had yet to really puzzle together why that was, but right now, it wasn't a concern.

"You think he'll be able to-" John started, but Sherlock had no time for conversation.

"I know he will," Sherlock replied as he was about to get into the cab John made to follow him, but Sherlock stopped him. "Stay here." He didn't need John to see Sherlock groveling on his knees to Mycroft. He didn't even want to see himself in such an action, yet he knew he would have to. Lord, the things he was willing to do for that woman.

"Why-"

"I need to talk to Mycroft alone," Sherlock informed him before slamming the door. John watched it rush off with a confused expression on his face.

* * *

Sherlock barged into Mycroft's office in the Diogenes Club. Mycroft looked up at him before he sort of rolled his eyes and threw down his newspaper onto the coffee table in front of him. He looked just so thrilled to see his little brother. Perhaps it was because he had an inkling as to why his younger brother was there; it was all over the papers. Yet, Mycroft would play ignorant.

"To what do I the pleasure?" he asked giving Sherlock a thin-lipped smile.

"Ginny's been arrested," Sherlock informed him. Now, that was news. Not good news but news nonetheless.

"Didn't I just help her stay out of jail?" Mycroft asked his little brother with a frown.

"No, you helped her avoid a trial, Mycroft," Sherlock answered simply knowing he would have to defend her case as Mycroft recently helped her. "She would have been exonerated if she had gone through with the trial."

"And this time?" Mycroft questioned.

"This time there's a likelihood that she would will be charged and found guilty since she did it," Sherlock replied causing Mycroft to stare at him for a lot longer than necessary. He knew Ginevra Lorraine, and he may have hoped they crossed paths, but now, he's wondered what he was done. It was a disaster waiting to happen, and for what? All of England could burn for this mistake.

"Sit down," Mycroft ordered willing to try and reverse the situation. He was unsure how attached Sherlock was to the woman, and perhaps, he could pull him away even a little, and if he could, perhaps Mycroft could play the 'for her own good' card. Sherlock frowned at the odd request; Mycroft often asked him to do things but to order him, to sound almost worried was out of character. It was like Mycroft was trying to get him to sit to prepare him for the worse. What did Mycroft know that he didn't? "Sit."

"Why?" Mycroft gave him a threatening look, and Sherlock did as he demanded in hopes to help the case with Jen. Even the smallest effort wouldn't go unnoticed. "Get to whatever point you want to make, Mycroft." He hoped that he just wanted to spout out some of his useless advice that Sherlock would ignore and then help Jen despite his objections to do so.

"She killed someone? How long ago?" Mycroft asked getting straight to the point.

"In November," Sherlock informed him. Mycroft seemed to consider this. That long ago? Good or not good? He tried to assess the situation, but there were so many variables.

"Only one?"

"Yes." He seemed to be careful about his next words as it could provoke a bad reaction in Sherlock.

"Perhaps it would be best if she went to trial, had someone take a psychoanalysis of her," Mycroft told him. She needed to get help even if no one around her besides himself, Robbie, and Damon agreed. Sherlock scoffed disliking the idea more and more. "Let her spend some time thinking on her actions."

"She obviously regrets her action," Sherlock snapped at him not willing to play whatever game Mycroft wished to play. "She killed her brother for God's sake."

"Sherlock, it's not about guilt; it's about stability," Mycroft answered him calmly.

"Stability?" Sherlock asked trying to push away the memories that were trying to flood his mind of all the times she proved to be unstable. Most recently was in the bathroom after she shattered the mirror. Schizophrenic was his first thoughts when she was jabbering on about the woman in the mirror taunting her. Yet, she showed no other signs of such a mental disorder.

"Surely, you haven't ignored the signs," he replied breaking Sherlock from the memory. "Sherlock, I know you don't want to hear it, but Ginevra is... she's not stable. Perhaps, when you first met her in London, she was a little more so, but she's gone without any form of treatment for a long time."

"Treatment? She never took her medication anyways," Sherlock informed him. "She never really had real treatment." She was against it, he reminded himself. It made her feel odd was the best way she could describe it.

"I see," Mycroft muttered allowing a precious piece of information run across his lips. "She didn't feel the need to tell you about her stay in Hanwell Asylum?" Sherlock stared at him blankly before responding.

"What the hell are you talking about Mycroft?" he snapped.

"Sherlock, Ginevra is unstable and prone to homicidal violence," Mycroft answered. He knew that; he knew she was, but she wasn't a serial killer. She wasn't a bad person; she was Ginny. She was the woman who took in Lucy when she had no one else, who defended her friends as if they were blood, who accepted him for all his flaws. She was not an ordinary woman, and she was not a bad person. "She's not good for you."

"I don't give a damn whether she's good for me or not," Sherlock informed him, "and she's not some crazed serial killer. She was fine until her brother came along and began twisting her hand."

"Peter only pushed her toward her natural state," Mycroft responded rubbing his forehead. Natural state, he questioned to himself, did she even have a natural state? Which is her natural state? The demon or the angel or was she some creature trapped in limbo being tugged and pulled and ripped apart?

"Mycroft-" Sherlock started, but his brother cut him off ready to press in a point.

"Do you remember Miss Thomas from down the lane?" Mycroft asked him. Sherlock found his frown deepening as he search for that one particular memory from his childhood of a bright woman, who seemed to always be smiling and wearing bright colors. She was his favorite neighbor always letting him look at her vast collection of books until...

"Yes," he said hollowly remembering the woman. It was a room he often kept board away in his mind palace, but he remembered.

"What happened to her?" Mycroft questioned. Sherlock scoffed.

"You knew very well what happened to her," Sherlock snapped at him, but Mycroft remained silent waiting for the answer. "Her ex-husband came back, and it triggered an episode. She stabbed her daughter to death before she slit her own throat. What's your point?"

"Miss Thomas was completely sane, completely normal until her ex-husband came back into her life. So imagine Ginevra is Miss Thomas, and Peter is her ex-husband." There was a moment of silence between the two brother before he pushed out of his chair.

"This ridiculous!" Sherlock shouted at him signaling to Mycroft that Sherlock recognized that he was right. "Ginny is fine!"

"So she hasn't been acting odd lately?" Mycroft questioned. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but he stopped bringing back the times she uttered for his help and the time in the bathroom and just her overall state lately. "Sherlock?"

"It doesn't matter if she is unstable as you put it," Sherlock answered. "It- she fits perfectly into my life unstable or not."

"And the moment she breaks and attempts to kill you and John in your sleep?" Mycroft asked. It could happen, and it's one of the many scenarios Mycroft feared when it came to his relationship with Jen.

"She's a lot of things, Mycroft, and loyal is one of them," Sherlock informed him. "She wouldn't harm me or anyone else she cares for."

"Then how about the moment she changes? The moment she switches sides, and she's the killer you are pursuing. Then what, Sherlock? What will you do?"

"I'll bring her back over to my side," Sherlock replied, "anyway I possibly can." Mycroft watched his little brother carefully before he let out a sigh. It was too late to convince Sherlock to take a step back from her. He had fallen in love with the girl and prying him from her would be disastrous. Which would be more of a disaster, Mycroft mused, prying her from him or letting this little game continue?

"I'll see what I can do," Mycroft finally told him. Sherlock focused his attention on his elder before he spun on his heels and walked out the door to pick up Jen from custody. Mycroft would have it done by the time he got there.

* * *

Jen sat in the jail cell with another woman, who was watching her curiously. The other woman was in newer clothing and didn't seem the type for jail. She was something of a plain looking woman in jeans and a t-shirt. Though, Jen supposed she looked stranger sitting in jail in her nice black dress and heels with remnants of makeup from the day before. Though, she did smell like alcohol.

"What are you in here for?" Jen asked her hoping to find some sort of friend or companion in this desolate place.

"I put my boyfriend in the hospital for cheating on me," she replied simply.

"Good for you," she laughed holding out a hand. They shook making the other woman laugh.

"That's not most people's reaction," the inmate replied with grin.

"I'm not most people," Jen told her.

"Then who are you?" she asked curious about the small woman and how she could possibly end up here.

"Ginevra Lorraine. People call me Jen."

"Louisa Carter. Everyone calls me Carter."

"Carter," she nodded liking the name. She smiled.

"What are you here for?"

"They think I murder someone to help my brother: The Carver," she replied with a shrug and a sigh. "I suppose I deserve this, because apparently, it's not enough punishment to have me chose between killing my brother or a man who I love but will never love me." There was a moment of silence as Carter seemed to process her rather unique situation.

"That's rough," Carter nodded feeling sympathetic.

"That's my life in one word: rough," she grumbled.

"So you chose the guy then?" she asked making Jen nod.

"Sounds stupid, I know," she answered, and it really did, but she didn't regret it. Choosing to kill Peter was like choosing to kill the devil, and if you had that choice, you damn well better take it. It didn't make her decision any less regrettable.

"What's his name?" Carter asked breaking her out of her thoughts.

"Sherlock Holmes," she replied thinking of the detective in the funny hat. The hat was starting to grow on her, regrettably.

"Oh! That's where I recognized you," she snapped her fingers pointing at Jen. "I've seen you in the papers; you two seem quaint."

"Thanks," Jen shrugged.

"So then… you two aren't…?"

"I don't know anymore," she scoffed collapsing onto the little bed. She was now using inmates as potential therapists. Wonderful. "Sometimes it seems like he cares about me, but… I don't know. Other days he just sort of seems to shove me aside, which, you know, isn't all too bad. I mean he's got this great big mind, and we're all ants to him, so I mean if he looks over me, I'm really not that offended."

"Maybe you're blind to what others see," Carter told her. "I bet he cares."

"He's not the kind to care easily," she scowled.

"No, I know people like that," Carter nodded, "but when they do care for someone, it's… passionately and loyally to the point of… absurdity."

"I told him I loved him… I was drunk, but I did," Jen nodded remembering the haze of the night previously.

"What did he say?"

"I don't know I was passed out before he could really answer," she laughed. Carter grinned, and the door was thrown open making them both stand.

"I suppose this is like one of those stupid stories where the handsome knight saves the princess," he told her with a smile.

"Sort of, but it's more like arrogant dickhead saves potential murderer," she offered.

"Sounds better," he told her. "Come on, Ginny. Let's get out of here." He gestured to the doorway.

"What about the charges?"

"Mycroft took care of it," he told her. "Let's go."

"He bribed them?"

"Ginny, I don't have time to argue with you. I'm exhausted from trying to plead with my brother over this case. Now, please," he gestured to the door again, and she sighed before she followed him out. She paused as Lestrade, who was waiting to escort them out as they gave Jen back her jacket and purse.

"Louisa Carter… how much is her bail?" Jen asked.

"5,000," he answered as she fished out her check book. She quickly wrote a check and gave it to Lestrade. "Why-"

"She was nice," Jen shrugged before Sherlock lead her through the building toward the outside where a cab was waiting. She could feel the eyes of everyone in the building; they were accusing eyes that knew what she did, knew that she was out due to the people she knew not her innocence, and it froze her blood as she stared at the ground.

Sherlock held the door open for her to the cab; she quickly slipped in, and he followed. He tried to hold his tongue, but he was rather tired of it. It just sort of feel out of his mouth. "Why didn't you tell me you were a resident in Hanwell Asylum?" he asked. She looked to him in surprise.

"What?" she asked.

"Hanwell Asylum. Why didn't you tell me you had a stay there?" he questioned her. "You've told me so much about yourself; why would skip over this? Did you fear judgement?" She shook her head slowly still frowning.

"I... I never was in any kind of mental institution, Sherlock. Why do you think I should be? I'm not insane," she argued with him. "Do you have intentions to lock me away just because I... I know what I did was wrong. I'm not a psychopath; I'm not my brother." Sherlock quickly shook his head.

"That's not what I meant. I was told you was admitted there," he answered her.

"Well whoever told you that is wrong," she snapped before she stared ahead of herself. Sherlock frowned staring blankly at the back of the passenger seat in front of him. He was sure his brother would not say something of the sort just to persuade him, and he was sure Jen was telling the truth. So, there were only two options: Mycroft was wrong, or Jen simply thought she was telling the truth, and Mycroft was never wrong.

They were silent the rest of the way to Baker Street. She said nothing as they climb the stairs. Toby perked his head up from under the piano to look at her before resting his head back down watching as she collapsed in her chair rubbing her forehead. Migraines had been pestering her for days on end, and they were reaching their peak. The lights were bothering, and the sound of Sherlock's feet on the wood floor was enough for her to snap at the man.

"Can you please shut up?" she snapped at him once more. He paused to stare at her. He could see her cringing holding her head in her hands rubbing her eyes.

"Aspirin?" he asked recognizing the signs of a headache.

"Won't help," she informed him quickly. He moved around her to the window drawing the curtains so that the light wasn't so bright. "Thank you," she muttered feeling bad for snapping at him. He said nothing as he moved around her and brought her two aspirin and a cup of tea a few minutes later. "Thank you," she said again taking both from him as he sat in his chair. He watched her take the pills and sip on her tea. He remained silent before her eyes glance to the paper lying on the side table.

"What's this?" Jen asked holding the newspaper that had come out that morning. Her face was plastered all over her condemning her as a murderer. There was no speculation about it in the paper; the flat out blamed her for the deaths of Peter's victims.

"Press had a frenzy," Sherlock told her quietly as her eyes scanned the article with a look of discontent on her face.

"Yes, I can see that," she scoffed reading the article. The guilt seeped in and thee walls suddenly seemed to be closing in on her making it hard to breath. The migraine slammed into her causing her to start to get tunnel vision. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "I need a walk," she uttered standing. "Toby," she called, and the dog followed his owner out the flat to go for that walk she needed. The sun would hurt her eyes, and the sound of the city would make her ill, but she thought it was better than sitting in silence with nothing but her own thoughts barreling down on her. She thought wrong.

Ostracization. She walked down the street and everywhere she looked where people's accusing stares. They walked on the other side of the road from her as if she was a disease. They pulled their children far from her. They avoided her eye contact; she could see them muttering to each other before their gaze fell on her. She smiled at a few neighbors, who gave her a hardened look and turned away. She felt herself sinking with no hand to grab.

She slowly turned back to the building and made her back home away from those stares, away from the guilt. She would rather be alone than feel the way she did among them.

* * *

"How is she?" John asked glancing at the stairway. He had rushed to the flat as soon as he heard the two of them were back from the police station. Sherlock was standing in front of the window playing the violin and composing, always a bad sign. He was trying to block out his emotions again.

"Upset," Sherlock answered simply. He may not know a lot about why people did things, but he could identify most emotions. When Jen came back, she was a hundred miles away too far for him to reach. He called her name, but she said nothing as she dragged herself up the stairs leaving Toby to whine and lay at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock remained downstairs assuming she would get over what people were saying about her. Harsh words, yes, but not very creative nor nothing to pay attention to.

"Well, I would be too if everyone thought I was a serial killer," John answered collapsing in his chair. He glanced at the stairway again. "I don't understand how they could think that," he muttered thinking about Jen. She had thrown violent fits before, but she never meant anyone harm, or so he thought.

"Because she did," Sherlock replied before stopping his violin to write a few notes down. He had said it so calmly that John was unsure what he was talking about.

"She what?" John asked picking up the paper before discarding it in disgust.

"She killed Lydia Walsh to keep her brother out of jail," Sherlock informed him before he put down his violin and collapsed in his chair across from John, who was staring at him like he had grown two heads. "Oh, I see," Sherlock hummed. "You have false, preconceived notions about Ginny. Allow me to fix those for you. Ginevra Lorraine is loyal in the same depth you are, yet she would go so far with that loyalty as to turn her back on her fellow man and her own feelings to put other people first. She would kill; she would destroy; and she would burn if it meant protecting the select few she holds dear. Now, allow me a question, John," Sherlock paused to consider the question; he needed an outsiders perspective. "Do you think she's stable?"

"Jen?" John questioned. Sherlock scoffed.

"Yes, Jen," Sherlock snapped.

"I think... it doesn't matter, does it?" John asked him. "Stable or not, she stills loves you as much as you love her. Nothing will change there. She's more than a bit rough around the edges, but then again you're a sociopath, who runs around chasing criminals for a living, best friends with a ex-soldier, who gets a high off of dangerous situations." They were both silent before John asked the next question. "What do you think made her that way?"

"Desperation," Sherlock answered having thought on that question for a long time. "Regina left her; Irene left her; Robbie left her. She never knew her real father, and the father she did know didn't bother to try and support them. She's had lover after lover not feeling any sort of emotion for them, and they felt nothing for her. The one man she managed to have some sort of sentiment for betrayed her. Use your best analysis of the situation, Doctor. Borderline Personality Disorder, symptoms?"

"Fear of abandonment," John replied. Sherlock nodded; he had come to the conclusion long ago. It had bothered him, and it was one of the things he would change in her if he could, but it was a problem that went deeper than he could reach. He found that as much as he would like to, he couldn't reach into her depths as he could some people. She wasn't a book; there was a part of her that was out of his grasp, slipping through his fingers, and it irked him.

"Ginny fears abandonment and is desperate for human contact, for love. In her mind, if she had allowed Peter to go to jail, had not killed for him, he would have turned away from her. The fear is so strong, she killed Peter before that could happen. She didn't kill him because what he was doing was wrong; she killed him because she couldn't bare the idea of Peter despising her, turning from her for turning him in, for betraying him." A heavy silence fell between them as they both thought of the woman upstairs.

"And this is the woman you love," John joked with him. Sherlock seemed to suppress a smile, but John pretended he didn't see it. Sherlock wouldn't say it out loud, but he wasn't denying it either.

"Ginny has always been interesting," Sherlock replied letting the hidden smile fall. "In school, outside of school, she posed a problem for me."

"What problem?" John asked. Sherlock frowned trying to find the words for what the problem had always been. He had been drawn to her immediately, and it had always been hard for him to vocalize what it was that made her such a thrilling case.

"She's not right," Sherlock tried to say and shook his head deciding that wasn't right. "I mean that there are times I look at her, and I see something that doesn't match her and what I know about her. For example, a few years ago, from my understanding she didn't drink, yet I have seen her drink rather heavily on more than one occasion. Or, the fact that her hands are small, gentle, and uncalloused as if she's never been a hard worker. Sometimes I look at her, and instead of Ginny, it's as if I'm staring at someone else."

"Who?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head letting the conversation fall. His mind was wheeling, and he began to walk through the halls of his mind palace letting his eyes slid shut. He ignored every room in the palace before he found her solid oak door; he pushed it open to find his Ginny in her green sweater, but she didn't greet him. She was too busy staring at the other side of the room. It was pitch black, no light reached that side. She looked terrified of the dark.

"Ginny?" he asked. She didn't respond as the sound of a person scuttling on the other side of the room caused her to jump back. Sherlock let his sharp eyes focus on the dark. "Who's there?"

"Seven," Ginny told him quietly. He frowned at the response.

"Seven what?" She glanced to him before her figure suddenly separated into seven black and white birds, magpies, and flew out the door surprising him as he covered his head. The darkness began to grow, and he stumbled back to inch away. He didn't know why, but he was terrified.

"What are you so scared of?" a voice asked from the darkness. It sounded like Jen and not Jen. Her voice was grainy as if she recently had laryngitis. "Don't you love me?"

"What are you?" he asked her as he finally found the courage to step in the dark to let his eyes adjust to see a figure standing in front of him.

"I'm Ginny," she told him, but he could neither deny or confirm that. He took a step toward her; she didn't move, so he took another step to her putting a hand on her shoulder. The woman glanced up allowing him to see eyes so like Peter it was terrifying. They were swirled with madness, murderous rage, but beyond that was a deep sadness and loneliness that cut him. She struck out, and he didn't defend himself as she jump on him and bashed his head into the floor over and over and over- He could hear her laughing before her laughing was joined by Moriarty's.

Sherlock Holmes woke with a start, a sheen of sweat covered his body, and his breathing was ragged. He had been more tired from the events than he thought. He stretched his sore body from the chair before glancing at the window showing the darkness had crept up while he slept and then the clock: 3:00 AM. He leaned back with a sigh before running his hands through his hair; he hadn't had a nightmare since he was very young. His own fear for Jen was consuming his thoughts, and the longer the game went on, the more it would eat away at him.

* * *

A/N: What am I doing posting so early? The next chapter is very, very short, and I decided to do a two chapter week because of that, and 100 reviews! WHOA! So yeah, have a chapter.

Thanks to reviewers: flaming-amber, Cereza101, scarlet tribe, hannahhobnob, short-skirtbluescarf, Akira Darkness, and zare . downey . okumura. I'll see you all in a couple days! Review please!


	16. Ursa

**Part Two: Ursa**

The guards made their way down the prison cells calling for lights out. Most already knew it and were ready for bed and lie there waiting for the lights above them to shut off. As soon as they did, the doors flung open startling the prisoners. Slowly, they peeked out of their cells unsure what was happening until the intercom called out.

"Feel free to start a riot, Gentlemen," the woman called, "but first I want the Saevus brothers to the warden's office immediately." There was a ripple of whispering before the riots started; they began shouting and fighting and tackling the guards and doors as two men made their way up toward the warden. The guards standing on the path said nothing; some looked guilty while others looked afraid. What the hell was happening?

She tapped her red nails on her coffee mug with a clink, clink, clink, clink. The warden's room was dark, darker than necessary as the heavy curtains had been drawn to filter out the light that was making her painfully ill; she wasn't all there, and her mind grew fuzzier with the passing hours. The light just made it worse sending the migraines from bad to worse feeling almost immobilized with pain.

She leaned her head back and drank in the air. Pain or not, it was good to breathe. It was like she breathing her first breaths, savoring them, etching them into her memory. A knock on her door made her eyes roll before looking to the solid oak door that separated the room from the rest of the prison.

"Come in," she called in a hoarse voice. She glanced at the doorway as an odd paired entered her solace. One was a small man with glasses rested on his nose and a stillness that seemed like a disease, and the other was a rather large rough looking mercenary complete with scars and tattoos of a large variety. "Ah," she smiled looking at the two, "the lovely Saevus brothers. How are you gentlemen?" The two were, in fact, not brothers, and that much was obvious just from looking at them. Yet, everyone knew them as such since their start as criminals and brothers in arms. If you found one, you found the other. One was violence, the other was information. They were a deadly combination, and a pair she desperately wanted in her circle.

The men stood very still observing the dark haired woman. It couldn't be after all these years; she was meant to be dead, but here she was taking over the prison, releasing them. The old warden was mangled and beaten on the floor. An old golf club he had often used to practice his swing laid bent covered in blood next to him. The blood hadn't bothered to be cleaned off the floor nor was there much effort to clean it off her. There was still a stain of it on her hands, arms, and boots, and it didn't seem to bother her even slightly. In fact, she didn't even seemed to notice.

"I asked how you are," she reminded them not one for waiting for a reply. She had come here for them, and they would act as if she was their God. If they didn't, they would regret it, and the Saevus brothers feared her anger, feared her imaginative violence.

"Well," the small one said quietly as he sat in one chair. His brother threw himself in another in a less than elegant fashion. They knew better than to question her after all these years; she asked the questions, and if she thought something was important for you to know, you would know.

"Not as good as you look, Raine," the mercenary whistled approvingly at her. She smiled rather forcefully at him. She didn't often smile nor did she do so at such crude compliments. Her smile was drawn out by a much more elegant fashion: violence and chaos.

"Take it easy, Jax; what would James say if you knew you were trying to woo me?" she asked him quietly as she lifted her tea to her lips. There was once a rumor that she drank the blood of those that crossed her; with the body of the old warden just feet from her, neither would be surprised to find it true.

"You've been gone a long time, Beautiful," Jax answered not wishing to be the one to give the bad news, but she would find out sooner or later.

"James is dead," his brother replied swiftly. The tea cup went smashing into the wall, and from the flinch of her hand, it seemed almost involuntary.

"What? How?" she asked. They shifted uncomfortably neither wanting to give her the bad news. "Vincent, how!?" she demanded slamming her hands on her desk making the smaller brother quickly start to speak, but he stumbled across his words.

"There's this… um… he's a… they were," she glowered at him allowing him to squeak out his last two words, "Sherlock Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes," she hissed sifting through her memory, but still her mind was hazy. It was trying hard to put her together, but it wasn't going fast enough for her liking. Waking from the dead wasn't nearly as easy as she hoped it would be. "What do you know about him, Vin? You know everything about everyone." She quickly turned to the brother, who nodded.

"He's the world's only consulting detective," Vin told her. "He's considered a genius; his brother Mycroft practically runs the British government. He's quite good too. He takes private cases, government cases, anything interesting. They go to him when the police are at a loss."

"Where does he live?" she asked him having every intention of meeting this Sherlock Holmes even if he had no idea who he was meeting.

"221B Baker Street with a woman named Ginevra Lorraine," Vin answered. "They say they're lovers." The woman's face split into a grin before she began laughing making the younger brother shudder, and the older brother smirk in amusement.

"Oh, Gina," she whispered with a laugh. "You've been a naughty girl." The woman's mind began wheeling with plans. She needed the Saevus brothers with her; they were the best, and she needed the best.

"So Raine, is Ursa back?" Jax asked with a grin as she pulled a zippo from her pocket as well as a Sobranie Black Russian cigarette. She lit the cigarette allowing the smoke to flow up to the ceiling.

"Oh but of course, Jax, and it's going to be a hell of a comeback," she laughed. "The game is on."

* * *

A/N: Very short. Consider it a prologue to part 2. I know we are very excited for Moriarty, and we'll get there, in a very roundabout way. Remember Raine Ailge (also known as Ursa) was James Moriarty's lover, so it will swing back to him. Also how Ursa is alive will be addressed.

Thanks to reviewers: Blink221B, zare . downey . okumura, Cereza101, hannahhobnob, and flaming-amber. See you all next Friday!


	17. Seven

Sherlock stared at her door. She hadn't come out in nearly a week, and he had to do something. He had heard thumps and bumps letting him know she was still breathing, but other than that, he had no idea what her state was. He thought leaving her alone would allow her to heal; she was always one to bounce back, but there seemed no end this time. He reached out a hand and made to knock on the door but shook his head and turned back toward the stairs changing his mind. He paused on the first step before he turned back again and finally knocked on the door. No one replied, so he knocked again.

"Ginny, you have to come out." There was a mumble on the other side of the door. It was incoherent, so he found himself bumbling in hopes she would come out in some way. "It's not… healthy for you, or so John claims."

"There's nothing for me out there," she called out in a much clearer way. He tisked at the reply.

"If this is about all of London thinking you're a serial killer, you're not," he attempted to assure her. What did one say to comfort people? He knew Jen; he knew what made her laugh, what made her sad. He could do this, he affirmed.

"Doesn't matter if I'm not," she uttered. She sounded miserable making his stomach tighten and begin to roll around. He felt like he was going to be sick.

"London is a parade of idiots," he reminded her. "You shouldn't care what they think." He heard a thump, and the door was opened so he could see a slip of her in the crack of the door. The shadows under her eyes were darker than usual. Five days, she hadn't slept in five days.

"You may be happy alone in your own delusional little world, but I'm different. I need human affection and acceptance. All of London thinks I'm a murderer. I don't want to be where… I can't come out." She went to close the door, but Sherlock stuck his foot in the crack preventing her from closing the door. He had learned that trick from his mother, and though it annoyed him, he was happy to have it in a moment like this.

"Ostracization has given us dozen of brilliant minds," he argued with her trying to find the positive in the situation for her. "Aristotle, Socrates, Dante, Galileo, Einstein, Da Vinci, Pythagoras… Jesus."

"You're an atheist," she grumbled leaning against the door putting all her weight on closing the door, but Sherlock's foot remained unmoved.

"Actually, I'm a deist," he replied quickly, "but that's not the point. The point is you have to come out. You don't have to leave the flat. Just come down shower, eat." She said leaning her head against the door with a sigh.

"If I do, will you leave me alone?" she asked just wanting to be alone with her thoughts, her misery.

"Yes," he answered, but he was sure it was a lie.

"Fine," she answered before she opened the door and passed him to head to take a shower. She showered, and as soon as she was done, she went back up to her room leaving the plate of food Mrs. Hudson had made on the table. Sherlock sighed and took it up. He knocked on the door.

"Go away," she told him.

"You need to eat."

"I'm not hungry." With a sigh, he easily picked her lock and pushed the door open. He paused in her room to observe it. There were paintings drying in several places around the room as well as older paintings piled in the corner. Sketches and books littered the ground in a careless fashion, and her closet was complete chaos. She was sitting on her mattress that laid unceremoniously on the floor among a shamble of sheets. It was a much different sort of place than when John once inhabited the room.

"Where's the bed frame?" he asked trying to find something to strike up the conversation. That was the first thing that his eyes happen to fall on.

"I broke it ages ago," she answered leaning against the wall. He wondered if she broke it one of her ever so enthusiastic fits. She seemed to be lacking those lately, and he sort of missed it.

"You need to eat," he told her sitting down on her bed with her. He shoved the plate in her hands. She looked at it in disdain before she stabbed the chicken with her fork in irritation. As she ate, Sherlock looked at each painting and sketch. There were many of people he didn't know, but he saw many more of those he did. He saw Irene and Peter and even Robbie as well as Lucy, Mark, Molly, John, Mary, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and of course, himself. He went through each carefully as he wandered the room. They just laid there collecting dust, serving no purpose, and it was a shame. "You should try and sell your paintings," he told her going through one of the older piles.

"No one wants my art," she grumbled shuffling around the remaining food on her plate.

"I would buy it," he told her before pausing on a painting. He pulled it into the light with distaste. "When did you paint this one?" he asked flatly. She looked at the painting of Moriarty, and he looked back at her realizing she was wearing his jacket again. Moriarty... why did he play a shadow in her life? He had suspicions but nothing substantial. Still, it nagged at him as if he should know the answer but refusing to see it.

"The days following his death," she told him offhandedly. Her eyes roamed over the painting. If she was being honest, it was one of her favorite paintings. "It shouldn't surprise you I painted him."

"It doesn't," he answered. "It surprises me that you painted him so… human," he spat. She looked at the painting again. Moriarty was hunched over in a chair in it. His blood spattered jacket was off and thrown on a desk behind him, but the crimson liquid was heavily contrasted on his white shirt. He had his blood dripping hands gripping each other, and his elbows rested on his knees as if he was agonizing over some murder he had just committed.

"Every story needs a good old fashion villain," she told him, "and every good old fashion villain has a story. He was human as much as you were."

"He tried to destroy me and is still working to destroy you," he replied venomously before he threw the painting back against to the wall before he turned and left her in a rather agitated state. She sighed and let her head fall back into the wall. There goes one of the only friends she has left.

* * *

"Oh, there you are dear," Mrs. Hudson smiled as Sherlock entered with John. They had been out on a case. "You have a client waiting for you." Sherlock and John ran up the stairs and opened the door to 221B to see a rather small woman sitting in Sherlock's chair. Her dark hair was as straight as needles. Her height extended by heels better suited for a goth teenager than a full grown woman. Her black jeans were tucked into them, and a sheer white top that did nothing to hide the black bra she wore under was partially tucked into the jeans. Her lips match her nails in the shade of red, and her eye makeup matched her dark hair. She filled the room with sex as much as she did power.

"Evening, Mr. Holmes," she mused as she finished off the cup of tea she helped herself to as if it were her home and not a stranger's.

"A fan," Sherlock said irritated as he hovered over her. She smiled up at him.

"Oh, absolutely, a fan," she told him before she tossed her teacup to John, who caught it on instinct. "Be a gentleman, and get me drink," she demanded with a pleasant smile. John gapped at her, and she gave him a tight smile. He shuffled off to the kitchen before she looked to Sherlock. "Sit," she pointed at John's chair across from her.

"You're in my chair," he hissed. The only person who dared to sit in his chair was Moriarty, and this insignificant woman was not even close to his caliber of genius.

"I know," she purred. "Now sit unless you'd like to sit in my lap. I won't object." He finally complied and sat down. "I've been dying to meet you."

"Your name?" he questioned her as he began deducing ever fiber of her being.

"Raine Aigle," she replied, and the name didn't spark any memory. Sherlock had never heard Ursa's birth name. How could he know in front of him sat one of the most dangerous women in all of Europe? How could he know that this woman was sitting in Sherlock's chair the same way her former lover had, that she was in fact James Moriarty's equals? She hide herself from his prying eyes well.

"In my experience, there are only two type of fans, Miss Aigle," he told her. "Catch me before I kill again. Type A. And Type B: your bedroom's just down the hall."

"Go on then," she told him as she snatched the cuppa from John, who seemed a bit flustered by the woman's behavior, and that was a rare event since he had lived with Sherlock Holmes. "Which am I?" Sherlock scanned her. The way she had dressed and angled her body to him, the batting of her eyelashes, the smile, the sexual energy.

"Type B," he told her already bored with her. "Not interested."

"Actually, I'm Type A and a half, Mr. Holmes," she answered tapping on her glass.

"And what's Type A and a half?" he mocked. He didn't know why he was humoring her.

"The kind who would jump you in a second," she smiled again looking at him through her eyelashes, "but respects your intelligence too much to do so. The kind that wants to throw around a word or two with you."

"I doubt a mortician has anything interesting to say," he replied annoyed with her presence.

"A mortician?" John asked.

"It's obvious," Raine replied biting back a smile that he was easily fooled.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked now just a tad bit interested.

"Slight smell of embalming fluids no matter how I try to cover it up," she laughed. "Leaves few other options."

"Yes," Sherlock said taking another look over her. There was something that was... off about her that he was trying to discover, yet she seemed to wear a veiling sufficiently hiding from him. "Have we met before?"

"Oh believe me, you would know if we met before," she told him with a smile before she stood and slowly began making her way around the room observing every little object that seemed to be in her view. "Why do you do what you do, Mr. Holmes? Surely, there's something more interesting than detective work?"

"Why do you want to know?" he asked her watching the woman circle the room. She paused at the photographs on the table that Jen had put out, and Sherlock had yet to address. She picked up one with an interested hm; it was a picture of him and Jen.

"Curiosity," she replied simply putting the picture down and continuing around the room pausing at the doll's house.

"Didn't curiosity do something dreadful to the cat?" he inquired offhandedly. She made another interested noise before moving on and replying to his comment.

"Killed it, but that's a bastardized version of the real phrasing. Over time, it was warped into curiously, but originally it was care that killed that cat. Fitting for you," she mused before lingering on the skull. She tapped her finger against it confirming it was real. "So detective work," she clapped her hands together and spun to him. "Why? Does it have anything to do with that pretty little woman upstairs?"

"Ginny came down?" Sherlock asked her glancing at the stairs.

"No," she answered rolling her eyes. "Read about her in the papers."

"Why upstairs?" he pushed farther.

"Clothes on the stairs," she gestured. "I don't think you're a drag queen on the side, Mr. Holmes."

"What would make you think it has anything to do with, Ginny?"

"Well, serial killer you're in love with… become a detective make sure she stays out of jail." Sound reasoning, but reasoning he didn't care for.

"If you're going to insist she's a serial killer, you're going to leave out that door or through the window. Your choice," Sherlock told her darkly as he stood. She chuckled.

"So defensive," she mocked him sending shivers down John's spine. There was something about her that made him uneasy. "Who we chose to keep in our company is very telling?" She spun around to look at him. "You keep a sentimental man as your friend. You keep around those with qualities you lack, Mr. Holmes. Sentimental drabble really."

"And how could a mortician possibly know so much?"

"She observes," she told him with a smile. "I watch people, and I've watch you and Doctor Lorraine for a while. I've watched long enough to know that you keep her around for what you desperately want."

"The more you talk the more I think your Type A," he warned approaching her. She smiled seeming very pleased with the assessment.

"Don't you want to know what you desperately want, Mr. Holmes?" she asked him. There was a glint in her eyes that unsettled him, that put him on edge. This woman was not Type B. She was as far into Type A as one could be.

"What's that, Miss Aigle?" he questioned.

"Acceptance and love," she told him. "You are a human, who strives to be a God, yet you fall prey to humanities flaws. You crave affection as much as you crave her; you long for her touch." He failed to notice her hand sliding up his arm and cuffing his neck. She seemed to have him in a trance till the hand moved against his neck. He ripped her hands from her.

"I suggest you leave," he ordered. She laughed.

"Is that a threat?" she asked giving him a mocking smile as she took a step to him, so they were practically touching. "Nothing's as romantic as a man, who knows how to make me afraid."

"Masochist."

"Sadist," she smiled biting her lip before her face fell, and she looked at the clock. "Well, this has been fun," she told him ripping her hands from him. "Time for me to go." Sherlock grabbed her arm as she made to turn away. "Yes?"

"Who are you?" he asked her confused at his deductions. He was sure everything he had just deduced was wrong; he was sure she was a dangerous. A red flag was going up even for him.

"A challenge," she grinned before tearing her arm away and leaving the two.

"What the hell was that?" John asked finally able to breath properly. Sherlock shook his head at a complete lose for once.

* * *

He sighed and slumped farther in his chair staring at the staircase. John had left him, and now he was left thinking about Jen and for a reason unknown to him, Raine Aigle. He made to get up, but then he collapsed back in his chair deciding against it.

"How is she dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked pushing her way into the room with a tray of tea and biscuits.

"I said some… not good things to her," Sherlock told her.

"Then, you should go apologize to her," Mrs. Hudson encouraged. "She has enough enemies with what the newspapers are saying about her. Poor dear is probably miserable; I remember when my husband was arrested the first time for killing a man everyone snub me even my closest friends."

"Mrs. Hudson, do shut up, and go away," he told her making the woman 'Oo' at him before she left the flat. Sherlock took the tray of tea and biscuits and started up the stairs. He didn't bother knocking this time and simply entered to see her sleeping her bed covered under all the blankets. He stepped to her desk and sat down pouring two cups of tea preparing hers the way he knew she liked it, and he waited knowing that she wouldn't take long to wake up.

Her eyes blinked open not long after he had entered the room having felt the additional presence. With a stretch and a slight moan, she threw her quilt off her and rolled to face him covered only in a sheet having discarded her clothes earlier on.

"Sherlock?" she asked seeing him through her cloudy vision. She pulled herself up so she was sitting up in front of him. She seemed a bit incoherent. "Why are you in my room?"

"Tea?" he asked giving her the cup. She leaned up and took the cup exposing her bare back allowing to see one of the few tattoos she kept from her rebellious days. Seven small birds, seven not eight not six, seven. His dream came back to him in full force. The Jen he knew had turned into seven magpies, and that's exactly what there were: Magpies. He quickly filtered through his mind trying to decide when he may have seen that tattoo and what significance it had. He found the memory of seeing the tattoo. It was the only time he saw her completely bare quite by accident: during the Baskerville case, but he couldn't find the significance, so he was forced to ask. "Why seven?" he asked.

"Hm?" she asked looking up at him before she absently reached to her back where the tattoo was. "Oh… you know the old rhyme about Magpies? One for sorrow, Two for luck; Three for a wedding, Four for death; Five for silver, Six for gold; Seven for a secret, Not to be told; Eight for heaven, Nine for hell, And ten for the devil himself."

"So seven," he repeated thinking back to the dream, and the possible meaning that rattled in his mind palace. "For a secret never to be told. A secret I know?"

"No," she answered with a smile. "A secret not even I know."

"How can you not know you own secret?" She gave him a cheeky smile making him scoff. He put this small piece of information on a shelf in her room in the mind palace before changing the topic. "John and Mary's wedding is in a week; they can't postpone it again," Sherlock informed her of what she already knew, but he wished to know her intentions.

"I don't want them to; they postponed enough for me," she replied sipping her tea. They had already postponed twice because of the events involving the Carver and his sister.

"So you'll go, then," Sherlock pressed. "Mary's picked out a dress for you as her maid of honor."

"No," she told him flatly.

"Ginny-"

"Sherlock, I… I will start coming out of my room. I'll try, but I can't go," she shook her head trying to bargain with him. "I adore them, but… I can't do it. It's too much; I go out, and… and Lestrade be there-"

"We'll uninvite him," Sherlock told her making her smile.

"Sherlock, I can't. I need more time; I just… they shouldn't have people wondering why there's a murderer at their wedding," she answered finishing her tea. "Please, tell them that."

"You can tell them."

"I'm not feeling up to it; I feel tired like I haven't slept for days," she told him curling back up in her bed.

"You haven't though," he reminded her.

"Course I have," she yawned. "That's all I have been doing." She turned on her side. From under her quilt, she peeked at him. His chair slid back, and her heart started to fall as she watched him stand to leave. "Stay?" she asked quietly from under the thick blanket. Her voice practically cracked. He paused and looked down at her. "Please, I don't..." She shuffled a bit, so that the quilt was wrapped around her, but she was properly facing him. "I don't mean to sound so... needy," she said flatly, "but I... I don't want to be alone." She looked away from him to the floor. She suspected he would mock her and leave, but instead, Sherlock removed his suit jacket and shoes putting them both on her desk chair.

"If you're forcing me to stay, I may as well catch up on my own sleep," he told her gesturing for her to move over. She oblige, and he slid into the bed next to her.

"Did you not sleep last night?" she questioned him quietly as he settled so that they were as far as they could be from each other.

"The last few nights," he assured her not telling her he was pouring over Moriarty's history as well as her own trying to find the inevitable moment that she had fallen into Moriarty's grips, but James Moriarty's history was not easily tracked, and as it turned out, neither was Jen's. So instead of lining up events, he was lining up missing pieces in both people's lives, and it was exhausting.

Without another word, Jen slid her arm over his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. He shifted feeling slightly uncomfortable with her bold action. He could feel every contour of her naked body pressed against his side, and he was doing his best keeping his mind intact and piling everything he could in front of a small hidden, bolted shut room in the mind palace that contained his most primal thoughts about Ginevra Lorraine.

"Relax," she breathed feeling his body go rigid. "I'm not trying to seduce you; it's just sleep." Just sleep, he told himself. Sleeping with someone is proven to be better for you; it's just sleep. People sleep naked all the time; people sleep together all the time. Yes, just sleep. Sherlock relax evening his breath pushing the small of her back, so that she was closer to him. She smiled as his eyes went heavy. Perhaps sleeping next to someone had its benefits, he mused as he fell under. After all, he had never fallen asleep so fast.

* * *

"She won't come down," Mary told them staring at the stairs with her arms crossed. "The wedding's in three days."

"She won't go," Sherlock assured Mary as he began rechecking everything for the wedding. He was getting anxious and nervous and wanted this whole thing to be done with. If Jen had been there, he would have had someone to share the misery of a wedding with.

"Has she come down at all since?" Mary asked worried about her.

"We have an agreement. She comes down to shower every other day, and I take meals to her in the mornings and evenings," Sherlock told her absently. "She came down to play monopoly with me. She's a cheater."

"You take meals to her?" John asked.

"We eat together. If I eat, she eats, that's the rule," he answered. "We've discussed the wedding, too many people, too many eyes, too much judgment."

"This is ridiculous!" Mary shouted ready to go up the stairs, but Sherlock put himself in her way. "Sherlock, get out of my way!"

"She's healing slowly but healing. I'm not going to have you guilt her into something that will just reverse her recovery." Mary raised her eyebrows in surprise at him.

"Maybe we can postpone," John offered.

"No, she doesn't want that," Sherlock replied. "Just leave it be, Mary. You can punish her when she recovers."

"You're damn right I will," she replied leaving him.

* * *

The flat was chaos at first with Sherlock running around trying to get everything together. She watched him wearily curled in a ball on the couch.

"Okay, okay, that's everything," he muttered to himself before spinning around to her. "Are you sure you won't come?" She slowly stood and walked to him her feet padding against the wood floor. Gently, she untied his tie and began retying it in a lazy fashion. "Where'd you learn this skill?" he asked watching her hands. She smiled gently.

"I fucked the academic team in school," she told him.

"Ginny," he reprimanded knowing a lie when he heard one.

"Christopher used to wear ties," she told him quietly fidgeting with the tie. "Whenever I would see him, it was tradition that I scolded him before I ripped off his tie and tied it myself. While I tied it, he would lean into me, and just sort of nuzzle me, and I tried to keep him at arm's length to tie his stupid tie, but sometimes we ended up entangled on the floor." She sighed. "It's one of the only fond memories I have him."

"You never talk about Christopher Black," he mentioned feeling his stomach tying in knots.

"I've been thinking about him a lot lately," she admitted finishing tying.

"Why?" he asked. She sighed and straightened his jacket gently.

"I was comparing the two of you in my head," she replied fidgeting with the jacket slightly ashamed.

"Find anything interesting?" he asked trying to appear nonchalant.

"Hm… I trust you more," she told him.

"Do you?" he asked.

"With Christopher, I always felt like there was a part of him that I couldn't trust, and I was right. With you, I don't feel that way. I trust you with my life."

"A terrible mistake that may get you killed," he answered making her smile fondly. "Are you coming? Mary even left a dress," he pointed to a long purple dress hanging on the door. "She said she'll have two maids of honor if you show, but she didn't mind."

"I'm not going, Sherlock," she replied kissing his cheek gently. "Have fun." He lingered a minute longer before he heard the sound of a car horn.

"I'll see you tomorrow then," he told her leaving her as she collapsed back in her chair to watch crap television. It was only a few hours later when the doorbell rang making her groan in her chair. Everyone was out at the wedding leaving just her to answer.

"Go away!" she shouted. The bell rang again, and she stood from her chair and shuffled her way to the front door. She peeked out to see the woman, Carter, she had met while incarcerated.

"Hi, Jen," she smiled causing Jen to open the door.

"Hi, Carter," she told her. "Come in." Jen stepped out of the way. "Tea?" she asked as they walked the stairs.

"Yeah," she nodded as Jen poured her a pot she had made just minutes before the door rang. "Thank you." She smiled as Jen took her seat. "So this the famous Sherlock Holmes's flat… where is he? Where is anyone?"

"Wedding," she answered. "John's getting married."

"Oh… why aren't… you there? Hate the fiancé?"

"Mary? No, I love her. We met years ago working together," she replied. "No I… uh… I've become a sort of recluse. I go out, and people… they're scared of me. Mary and John don't need me there, and… I don't need me there. It hurts too much."

"That's a bit selfish of you," Carter told her shaking her head.

"I'm sorry?" she answered.

"Well, I mean they're your friends; they want you there, and you don't go because you're uncomfortable."

"Yes, well, they have Sherlock-"

"And even bigger reason to go," she argued. "If Sherlock's what you say he is, he is likely agonizing over this, and his best friend is getting married. He'll be alone for most of the night."

"He has friends."

"It's the end of era, and he has no one to cope with over that," she told her making Jen fall flat. "You love him, and you left him out to dry." She hadn't thought of that; she hadn't thought of the man panicking over his speech and over the night when Mary and John go off dancing and he's left…

"Do you want to help me with my dress?" she asked knowing what was obviously the right decision. Carter grinned in affirmation.

* * *

A/N: Make up for the ridiculously short chapter. Hope you enjoyed the very small amount of fluff. We will be seeing more soon! Yay! See you all Saturday.

Thanks to reviewers: SR, hannahhobnob, and Cereza101.


	18. A New Era

"I never thought I would see Sherlock Holmes looking lonely," she called out to him making the detective pause at the sound of her voice. "Is that sentiment?" Sherlock turned to see her sitting in a swinging loveseat that hung over a tree just a bit off the beaten path.

"What are you-" he started.

"A friend told me I was being selfish," she told him with a smile before it fell, and she looked at her hands at back up at him. "I uh… I got here, but I couldn't bring myself to go in. I um… watched the whole reception from out here. It's nice… beside the almost murder." He strolled to her; she was wearing the same purple dress Janine had been wearing as the replacement maid of honor. Jen seemed to wear it better. "Even saw you flirting with that cute brunette."

"Her?" he asked nodding to the building recalling Janine."She reminded me a bit of you."

"I reminded you of some slut Mary made her bride's maid?" she asked him bluntly. "I didn't think I was so easily replaceable."

"At first, then I realized how boringly normal she was," he answered. "You're much more interesting."

"Good, I thought I had competition," she answered with a sneaky smile.

"Competition?" he asked. "Well, you're getting quite bold in your presumptions."

"I like bold," she told him standing and smoothing out her dress. "So, Mr. Holmes, I would like you to dance with me at the risk of your toes."

"And if I chose to decline?" he asked her with an amused smile.

"I may forever despise you creating a cleverly planned revenge in which you would not survive in one piece," she informed him making him smile at her before she took his hand in hers. "Come on," she told him tugging him toward the building. "You owe me a dance."

"Not inside though?" he suspected.

"No," she answered, "but that's because I don't want to make a fool of myself. I'm a terrible dancer." She got close enough to the building to clearly hear the music, and she took off her shoes. "Rather not break your toes."

"I think maybe you just haven't had the right partner," he told her taking her hand in his and setting his hand at her waist.

"Then teach me. Plenty of cotillion teachers have attempted in the past," she grinned looking down at her feet.

"Don't look down," he told her. "A simple waltz. I'll lead." She went to look back at her feet, but he caught her. "Look at me. Focus on me." She sighed before she looked back up at him successfully causing her to step on his feet. She winced. "Please, Ginny, you're too small to cause any damage. Stop trying to lead."

"I'm a dominate creature, Mr. Holmes. I like taking control," she told him causing him to roll his eyes and unexpectedly dipping her much to her surprise as she fell into a fight of giggles when he pulled her back erect.

"If you want to dance properly, I need to be the dominate one between us, Ginny, so you need to act like the submissive one," he told her.

"I sort of like the sound of that," she gave him a cheeky smile. "What are you going to do to me if I don't?"

"Ginny," he warned her from using flirtatious behavior, but perhaps he liked it more than he would care to admit.

"Right, sorry. Dancing. Go on," she told him, and he slowly lead her, and she allowed it concentrating on him. She looked rather irritated trying not to concentrate on her feet. "I was thinking," she said getting ambitious as the dance went on, and she began to relax more.

"Don't do that too often; you might make yourself ill."

"Shut up," she scolded with a smile. "I was thinking, you and I could sneak into the kitchens take a couple bottles of wine, get some cake and food, and go find somewhere to celebrate the new era." Sherlock dipped her making her 'oh.'

"I'd like that," he told her knowing that with John gone now it would be him and Ginny. Him and Ginny, and he couldn't bare loosing her.

"You would?"

"New era for them and a new one for us."

"Us?" she asked as he pulled her back up.

"Yes, let's go," he grabbed her hand and pulled her inside. He peeked behind the wall making sure no one who recognized Jen was in view before he ran across the hall filled with people with Jen holding his hand. He stopped her as a waiter went by them, and they continued to the kitchen, where they both ended up on the floor. Jen was in charge of swipping the food, and Sherlock in charge of the wine. It was painfully easy as they both came out with quite a bit of both. "I have a room; let's go," he pushed on her back forcing her up the stairs and to a room that Sherlock unlocked with a key in his pocket.

"It's rather quaint," Jen said setting the food down on the table before collapsing in the arm chair as she watched Sherlock put several bottles of wine on the table. "Getting drunk, are we?"

"I wasn't sure if you had a particular preference," he answered. "You seem to switch between different kind of wines all with different flavors."

"I like white," she answered leaning over to pop a bottle of white, "but I don't mind rose or red. I don't like the bubbly kind as I don't really like carbonation. What about you, Mr. Holmes? Do you have a wine preference?" He sat still for a minute as she poured her glass of wine considering whether to answer such a trivial question. He leaned over and popped the nearest bottle of red allowing her to give him a slight smile. "I suppose a toast is in order. To…" she twisted her wrist trying to decide what a good toast would be; Sherlock rolled his eyes at the idea, "to a higher brand of criminal. Lord knows the criminal class has been slacking since James' death." At this, Sherlock let out a chuckle fully willing to toast to that.

"To a higher brand of criminal," he agreed clinking his glass with her.

"So, I have to ask," she told him eyeing the table, and what he set down, "why did you grab kitchen knives?"

"Pin the knife on the serial killer," he offered making her laugh.

"While drunk."

"While inebriated," he affirmed.

"And they say you aren't fun," she grinned finishing her glass of wine already and pouring another glass. It was curious to him that he had not so long ago heard from Molly that Jen never drank, yet lately, it seemed that piece of information was wrong.

"Who's they?" he asked pushing the thought aside for a moment.

"Everyone: my friends, your friends, my family, your family, coworkers, newspapers, strangers off the street-"

"Point met," he cut her off.

"So..," she started.

"So," he repeated knowing she had something on her mind, but she was avoiding talking about it. He waited for her to speak her mind.

"Nothing's going to change with you know… John and you. Mary understands how much you mean to John and John means to you," she assured him.

"No, I know," he said a little too quickly.

"Sherlock," she told him, "I know when you're lying. Yes, things change when people marry, but you'll still see him, go crime solving with him, all that jazz." Sherlock tipped his glass finishing his first glass of the evening before he poured another.

"Mary's pregnant," he answered finally making her 'oh.' This was a new piece of information she wasn't prepared to deal with, but still, it wasn't hard to twist it into something positive.

"Well, then you'll go on a different adventure," she grinned imagining Sherlock with their child. "You'll have a Godchild."

"Godchild?" he questioned sounding confused.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Who else would be the Godfather but you?"

"And you'll be the Godmother then?"

"Maybe," she shrugged, "but we've seen how motherly I am. Peter was a serial killer; Irene's a blackmailing dominatrix, and Lucy was murdered by my wonderful brother. So, that should say something about my parenting skills."

"I'm a sociopath who was appalled by a child hugging me today," he answered in kind, "yet you suggest I'll be Godfather."

"Why did a child hug you?" she asked him trying to picture him around another child that wasn't Lucy.

"He liked the photographs."

"What photographs?" she frowned.

"Of crime scenes, cases."

"You showed a child real picture of your cases! Sherlock! He's a child!" she objected.

"He'll learn sooner or later," he shrugged making her punch him in the arm before she went to pour the next glass before he quickly spilled out his own thoughts on the subject. "Although the correlation and your history with raising children have not been particularly pristine, I think given your attitude and loving nature you would make an acceptable mother especially considering you never really had one." She paused and slowly put down her drink blinking her eyes rather rapidly before she processed his words. "How Irene and Peter turned out was no fault of your own but likely due to a mix of childhood traumas and biological misfortunes. As for Lucy, you always showed great care for her, and her death was because you cared for her so. Your brother was a possessive psychopath who would not have you love anyone but himself."

"You think?" she questioned titling her head at him.

"Your brother was rather-"

"No, no, not that part," she shook her head. "You think I would make a good mother?" she asked. "Despite everything, if I chose to be, you think I would… be able to be a good mother?"

"All past experiences affirms that," he answered.

"I don't want facts; I want opinion," she told him.

"You want a personal opinion? I base all of my opinions on fact," he informed her. "You know that."

"Sherlock," she uttered expecting an answer. He paused and nodded.

"In my personal opinion, if I had to choose a woman to bare children for me based on maternal instincts and characteristics, I would choose you."

"Do you want them?" she asked throwing him off.

"Hm?"

"Children?"

"No," he replied. "I wouldn't have time for them and their clinging." He seemed disgusted at the idea, but his face smoothed out as he contemplated children and their pros and cons. "On the other hand, if I could find a woman to impregnate-"

"You would have to have sex," she reminded him.

"Not if I simply donated the sperm, Ginny," he rolled his eyes. "As I was saying, if I could find a woman to impregnate with viable qualities, who would not need my assistance nor want it in raising said child, I would happily donate to pass on my genetic material in hopes that my intelligence will be passed on to the next generation."

"And have you looked for said woman?"

"Yes," he said surprising her. "You look surprised."

"I am very surprised," she admitted. "I didn't think… is there a little Sherlock running around in London somewhere?" she grinned at the idea.

"I love to disappoint, Ginny, so no."

"Why not? You looked; I wouldn't imagine you'd simply give up," she mused as he poured his third glass of wine.

"After the 657th candidate had been interviewed and disappointed me once again," he sighed seeming slightly disgruntled with the outcome, "I came to realize that there was no woman fit in baring a child of my quality."

"Oh, so an arrogant dickhead?"

"An intellectual far beyond the commonwealth's comprehending who happens to be an arrogant dickhead, as you so eloquently put." She gave him a lazy smirk. "I have long considered asking you to be such a host but decided against it as familiarity doesn't suit me."

"Me?" she questioned surprised as she poured her next glass.

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Although you are now passed your prime, you hold something of an appeal to me. If our genes were to be combined in a child, the chances of some form of genius is nearly inevitable. You are a genius of the stage, of the arts, of psychology. I'm the opposite; I'm a genius of chemistry, math, deductions, sciences. I observe; you feel. Do you understand? No matter which way the genes are organized, you and I would produce a genius of some caliber."

"But to know that you would have to go through my family history and records," she informed him.

"Of course," he answered making her stare at him in a bit of shock to know he went through her records.

"And you didn't think I should know this?"

"No… should I have told you?" She shrugged.

"I don't know. Just thought it was something normal people would get mad at, so I gave it a shot," she told him with a laugh, but honestly, she was more curious than mad. "What did you find?"

"The man who raised you was a genius in chemistry. Unbeknownst to me, I read a lot of his work when I was younger," he paused before moving on to a more important and a more sensitive topic. "Your mother was an artist, a painter and a musician of extraordinary caliber. She was a protégée up until the age of fifteen when she was admitted to a mental hospital for violent behavior."

"What did she do?" Jen asked.

"She tried to drown her little sister," Sherlock answered unsure why she had never heard this. With Jen's own mental state shifty at best, she should know that her mother's own mental state was similar. If Regina Adler had handled Jen with care, had spoken to her, perhaps stability would have been more tangible.

"Mum had no family; she was an orphan," she told him what she had heard all her life. Her mother didn't speak about her family nor had Jen ever met them.

"No, you're mother likely feared you meeting her half," he reasoned out both to her and himself. "On her half of the family, you have a slew of geniuses in psychology, politics, and any social science you can name. On top of that, they were geniuses in criminal justice… to avoid it. Your maternal family is a heap of sociopaths, psychopaths, and a handful of other disorders. Not to mention, a few serial killers popping up here and there."

"Right, so that comes from mum's side. What about my biological father? You did research on him?"

"Yes," he nodded, "he seems relatively normal until you delve into his files and realize his entire family is members of every big crime organization that plays a hand in the western world from the mafia to the triad, and it's been that way since the start of organized crime. In fact, I'm sure Damon's had plenty of interactions with them on multiple occasions."

"And my father?"

"Met your mother. Became a lawyer. Found out you existed. Married your mother," he listed simply. Her father was a bit more boring than her mother; Regina Adler was delightfully interesting to learn about.

"And uh… why do you think he cared about mum?" she asked seeking an opinion.

"He had a sister who committed suicide due to manic depression," he replied. "He's projecting his own guilt and need to do right onto her." Jen nodded slowly before the frown deepened on her face.

"So, you do realize that my family is full of psychos, and you wanted me to have your child, because…?" she asked.

"Well, if it didn't create a protégé it would create a great nemesis," he answered making her laugh.

"Alright, but there's got to be another reason besides my family, or you would have found your prime specimen by now."

"You're appealing, successful, quick on your feet, resilient, adept at adapting, and I can actually stand you," he informed her listing off the appealing things about Ginevra Lorraine.

"So many compliments in one sentence, I must be getting there," she teased pouring them both a glass from the red, "so must you be."

"Obviously if I'm so ready to commend you on qualities that are hardly rare," he answered making her role her eyes.

"Shut up, I was starting to like you."

"As you've kindly informed me, you love me," he answered.

"I also hate you, and yes, it's possible for them to coincide at the same time," she replied sipping her wine. "So boy or girl?"

"Hm?"

"If you had a choice between a boy or a girl, which would you have?"

"With you… theoretically?"

"Theoretically," she replied with a nod.

"A girl."

"Why?"

"Although having a male would have its advantages as the Holmes name would stay in his line, he would likely have an upper advantage in physical strength, and men tend to have more privilege in several countries. That being said a woman would be able to walk into places without seeming suspicious; women have the unique ability to drift to and from places without being seen as suspicious."

"We would make pretty babies," she told him with a grin.

"You're a little tipsy," he noted.

"Obviously, we're talking about your potential children, Sherlock," she answered in kind making him nod in agreement.

"Male or female?"

"Our theoretical child?" He nodded. "Well, I think… I would like a child not like me, so there's that. Um… let's see… I think I would want a boy. Generally, males will be more likely inherit their father's genes, and I'd rather the child be you than me." She paused and a lazy smile fell on her face again. "Gosh, they would be cute. Your eyes and cheekbones, my nose and lips."

"Hands too," he said looking at her dainty hand that was currently draining her wine glass.

"Why? Do you like my hands?" she asked pulling them back to look at them before she poured another glass of white for the both of them. They were going through the wine quickly. Sherlock suddenly grabbed her hand to show her their fine quality.

"Not marred, not calloused, soft," he told her, "as if you hadn't had a day's hard work. They're dainty with lengthy fingers only increased in length by rather adequate fingernails. They look as if they would be repulsed by any act of violence. Psychics would say you have 'water' hands."

"Psychics? What do you know about psychics?" she laughed.

"You would be surprised," he said running a thumb over her knuckles gingerly. "I once did a case involving a psychic scamming thousands out of normal people; I also once pretended to be a psychic made over ten thousand in two days."

"You did not," she said laughing.

"I did," he answered making her laugh again.

"So you were saying water hands?" she pressed wanting for him to continue.

"Suggesting, according to said psychics, that you are emotional and soft. That's why your hands are undoubtedly one of your best features. Like you, they only tell one partly who you are; the rest is just contradictory to the truth." She smiled and twisted her hands so she could see his. His fingertips were calloused from playing the violin, and he some slight scarring from chemical burns. It was nothing to noticeable.

"What about you? What about your hands?" She gingerly rubbed circles into his palms.

"Nothing extraordinary," he admitted.

"But mine are? Are extraordinary?"

"Obviously," he told her making her grin as she pulled her hands from his to start drinking her new glass of wine.

* * *

Thirteen bottles later had Sherlock sloppily spinning Jen around in a circle with his scarf wrapped around her eyes and a kitchen knife in her hands dressed only in one of Sherlock's button downs. A hurried sketch of 'The Maefly Man' that Sherlock had just caught was pinned to the wall above the bed.

"This… this seems like… bad," she laughed as he stopped her.

"Bad is good!" Sherlock exclaimed before he pulled away from her allowing her to stumble on her feet and throw the knife at the wall. It bounced off causing them both to let out a roar of laughter before she reached for another and threw it. It bounced off again. It wasn't until the fifth knife after breaking the lap and the television set that she managed to get it stuck in the wall making them both cheer.

Jen hopped on the bed to grab the knife but paused before she started jumping on the bed causing the headboard to bang against the wall.

"Come on, Sherly," she teased.

"I think," he said pausing trying to find his words, "I think you should get down from there."

"Catch me," she grinned bouncing higher.

"Come… common, Ginny," he gestured slurring his words together.

"Will you catch me?"

"Yeah, yes! Yes!" he said standing where he had the most room, in front of the door.

"Ready?" He clapped his hands, and Jen jumped off the bed and into him arms causing them to collide to the floor with Jen straddled him just as a knock on the door sounded.

"You might want to… should get that," he pointed at the doorknob. Still straddling him, Jen reached over and opened the door. John stood there looking exhausted.

"Ehhhhh, is John," she sang holding her hands out for a hug completely forgetting she was on top of Sherlock, who was starting to fall asleep. She herself was starting to get a bit groggy.

"Jen?" he asked rubbing his eyes. "When the hell did you get here, and what the hell are you two doing banging on the wall at this God damn hour?"

"Well… well, we ain't bangin'," she slurred before she passed out on top of Sherlock. John scratched his head staring at the two as if they'd lost their mind before he shook his head and left them to sleeping in the middle of the floor.

* * *

When Sherlock pulled through with his head pounding from the light flooding in the room, the first thing he noticed, after the excruciating headache, was the smell of lavender in his vicinity followed by the warm of a human body pressed against his side and then the warmth of breath on his neck.

His eyes opened a crack, and he peered at Jen, who was still sound asleep laying against him with one of her legs still half way across his lower abdomen. He jolted up causing her to fall off him and let out a groan. Sherlock stood as she slowly rolled onto her back.

"What the hell happened last night?" she asked putting a hand on her head as she watched him attempt to straighten himself out. "Why am I wearing your clothes?" she asked noting she was only wearing one of Sherlock's buttonups.

"You were complaining about your dress being uncomfortable," he answered remembering slips of memory from last night as he pulled on one of his usual suit jackets he had packed.

"Was I?" she asked with a moan before she collided with the floor again.

"You need food," he told her trying to find his file of remedies for hangovers in his mind palace. "It'll absorb the remnants of the alcohol and rehydrate you."

"Right," she muttered standing and clutching the door for support. "I have no clothes."

"Qualms with rumors?" he asked holding out his signature jacket for her.

"About sex? No," she remarked taking the jacket from him and slipping it on. It was practically a dress on her.

"Great, let's go downstairs," Sherlock told her opening the door for her. She stepped into the hallway.

"What time is it?" she asked blinking out the spots in her vision.

"Ten," he answered as they made their way casually down the stairs.

"Well, last night was… I never want to drink again," she told him shaking her head. It wasn't so much that they didn't have a good time; it was that she could barely remember the night and right now her head was pounding. Not to mention the lack of intellectual conversation was appalling.

"Agreed," Sherlock responded as they reached the ground floor.

"This is the third time I've gotten drunk with you, Mr. Holmes," she teased. "You are a bad influence."

"I'm a bad influence? You're a bad influence," he informed her as they walked into the reception area.

"I am not," she argued.

"I'm not a drinker," he told her. "Slows down the mind."

"Well, neither am I," she replied.

"You were in school," he said as they reached the round table that had replaced the long table for the wedding party.

"Ancient history," she recalled as Jen collapsed in what should have been an empty extra seat for her; Sherlock sat next to her. The entire wedding party was staring at them. "What? Oh, right… sorry. Bit groggy. I'm Jen; I showed up last minute last night. I really don't have a good explanation to why I am currently only wearing a jacket and a button up neither of which belong to me other than I didn't bring any clothes and Mr. Holmes was being remarkably chivalrous, and yes, I know that is a shock to me too. I'm a friend of John and Mary's and had avoided the wedding because the newspapers have labeled me a serial killer of which I will never deny nor agree to. Any questions?" she asked before she picked up a glass of water and sipped it.

"What were you two doing last night?" Mary asked. "We heard banging from Sherlock's room."

"I remember nothing, but my only assumption is that we fought, poorly as the television is broken as is the two lamps, and the bathroom door."

"And the door out the balcony," Sherlock reminded her. "Shattered."

"You destroyed a hotel room?" John asked staring at them as two plates were set in front of them by the waiters.

"Yes," they both answered.

"Did you really expect anything less from Sherlock?" Jen asked with a laugh.

"You're paying for the damages," John told them both.

"Dull," Sherlock answered.

"Sherlock, I mean-"

"Relax, John. We'll pay the damages," Jen answered before stabbing the sausage on her plate. "After this, we need to head back to London. I have a case for you."

"A case?" he asked. "What sort of case?"

"The sort that you're taking, because a friend of mine asked a favor of me," she answered before popping the sausage in her mouth.

"And why would I take your friend's case? They're your friend."

"Because I told you to, and because you're my friend."

"I don't do what you say, Ginny," he answered causing her to look up from her plate with her jaw clenched and a look that threatened him without words. "Right, case. What kind?"

"Her brother is missing," she answered. "I'll explain later."

"I'm sorry are you two-" Janine began.

"Destructive?" Sherlock offered.

"Annoying?"

"Intelligent?"

"Arch-enemies?"

"Bane of each other's existence?"

"A Couple?" she asked making them both 'oh.'

"Boring assumption," Sherlock answered making Jen give a sort of half smile.

"I'm irrevocably in love with him, and he ignores me due to his choice of being unemotional and withdrawn from society in order to keep his mind in pristine order," she answered feeling both bold and reckless with her words wanting to shut 'the cute brunette' up as Jen didn't really care for the woman flirting with Sherlock. "I want nothing more than to strip of his clothes and having him begging for me, buuuut you know he's married to his work, and I'm completely mentally unstable, likely to crack at the flip of a switch. He accepts I bored on psychopathic sometimes, and I accept that he's void of sexual desire as far as I've seen thus far. We have an understanding," Jen remarked before she picked up her glass of water and took a sip from it as she enjoyed the look of complete shock on Janine's (as well as the whole wedding tables) face. "Mm, I have a present for the newlyweds," she said pulling an envelope from her coat before giving it to them. John quickly began opening it. "Sorry, no personal touch, just a check."

"Jesus," John breathed out clutching onto his neck slightly trying to remember to breath. "How do you… this is… how do you have this kind of money?"

"You think Irene's the only who knows how to blackmail people with sex?" she asked him casually causing Sherlock to cough into his juice. Jen let out a laugh pleased that she managed to even catch Sherlock off guard. She was in such a strange mood.

"You wouldn't," Sherlock challenged her. She raised an eyebrow at him in challenge. He didn't yield making her scoff.

"Oh, alright, fine. I've never blackmailed someone for money. That's so boring; if you're going to blackmail someone, it should be for something interesting, you know?" She gave him a lazy smile.

"Then, where is it from," John asked her, "for you to just give money out like this?"

"Royalties," she replied.

"From?"

"Ginny's written several award winning books and has composed a number of songs," Sherlock informed him. "Every month she gets a check for the revenue they've generated."

"And you know this and I don't, because-"

"I've read her books," Sherlock answered, but Jen let out a choke of laughter.

"Yeah right," she rolled her eyes. "He reads my mail without my permission. You should know that."

"Oh, yeah, sort of happy I don't have to deal with that anymore," John recalled the number of time he had found Sherlock going through his mail finding it boring.

"Actually, it's a lot of fun. Sometimes I send things to myself just see his reaction when he reads them," she replied. "Always good days when I see him reading my mail with something of a shocked look on his face." Jen leaned back and looked at the time on the clock. "Well, I'm going to go see if I can wrangle up some sort of spare clothing," she said standing. "I'll get your jacket back to you when I get the chance, Sherlock," she leaned in and left a kiss on his cheek. "Have fun socializing." Sherlock glanced at her briefly as she made her way to chat at Molly about potentially having spare clothing before he turned his attention back to his plate.

"So, she seems better," Mary noted with a smile.

"She's pushed her worry of judgment and ostracization aside for the time being," Sherlock informed her.

"Or maybe she just missed spending time with you," Mary offered. "Well, they'll be plenty of that while John and I are on our honeymoon." Sherlock gave a slight grumble in affirmation before he continued to eat wondering if Jen would agree to filling in for John while he was on his sex holiday.

* * *

A/N: John and Mary's honeymoon means that Jen and Sherlock get to go on a case together! YAY! Not my best chapter, but definitely some amusing conversations and just a small smidgen of fluff (we are getting so close to a tangible relationship I can feel it). I barely even touched upon Janine, and I really have no desire to. She's not competition; she's just not. You know who I may have to address eventually as competition is Molly. Haven't thought about that much yet.

Thanks to reviewers: flaming-amber, zare . downey . okumura, Blink221B, hannahhobnob, Feint Illusion, and Cereza101. See you next Friday/Saturday!


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